Partners
by dragonmactir
Summary: There for each other, no matter what.  Now with 50% more serial killer.  AU story set post "Mr. Yin Presents."  LASSIET
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+, just in case

**Spoilers: **Through Season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents"

**A/N: **This is a "what if" story that goes AU from the end of season four onward. The first chapter is in the First Person Present tense, which I hate, but which seemed to fit best for the very moment-to-moment nature of a life-and-death situation. That said, I hate it, and further chapters will be Third Person Past tense. This first chapter does kind of work as a one-shot, actually, but I don't want to do the rest as sequels so I'M NOT GOING TO, NEENER NEENER NEENER.

**THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS**

**Chapter One: A Race Against the Clock; or, Got Yer Back, Partner**

_**Carlton**_

When that bastard Yin took my partner, this case got _real_ personal _real _quick.

And where was I? Stuck in a goddamn prop car with _Henry By-God Spencer, _that's where, and if you think _that _doesn't piss me right the hell off then you don't know _me_, Buster Brown. When I finally got out of there to where O'Hara disappeared I was seething, and seeing just _how_ that bastard got hold of her only made me angrier. Sweet Lady Justice, O'Hara, what the hell were you _expecting _would happen when you pulled a beer tap set up as part of a serial killer's sick game? Did you think that confetti and party balloons would just drop from the ceiling?

Mr. Nice Guy pipes up in my head and tries to be "fair" about it. Tries to tell me that I probably would have pulled the damn thing, too, if it had been me, but that's a load of road apples and a clear indication of why my Mr. Nice Guy side has _no business _getting involved in police business. It was a rookie mistake, plain and simple, and O'Hara isn't a rookie anymore. It almost qualifies as a _dumb blonde _mistake, and O'Hara has _never _struck me as a dumb blonde, not even during that whole Mary Baumgartner undercover op. _Anything_ could have happened when she pulled that tap, a trapdoor was only the most obvious. Could have been a goddamn _shotgun trap_, for crying out loud.

I have to keep pushing the thought of _that_ unpleasant possibility out of my mind as we search for signs of her. I would very much _not_ like to come across my partner with her face blown off by a ten-gauge, or with her guts blown open. I've got a very highly detailed imagination when it comes to that kind of thing, because I've seen _exactly _what it looks like, and believe me, it's worse than it sounds. Even if you're currently running to the bathroom to _vomit, _it's worse than it sounds. You really can't ever get used to seeing things like that, you know, no matter what television or movie cops might say. Oh, sure, you learn to suppress the gag reflex, and you can even compartmentalize the horror and revulsion to the point where it _looks_ like you're all business, but you'll dream about it at night - _if_ you manage to sleep. _I_ usually don't.

And then we're back at the station and Spencer pipes up and says that Yin was going to go after that little ninny who has the bad sense to date him, Abigail Lytar, and we have to send McNab to pick her up at the airport. McNab might be a six and a half foot waste of oxygen but he's a _cop, _dammit, one of _mine_, and even though they tell me he's going to be okay it's just one more goddamn thing that makes me want to nail this asshole Yin to the wall - _literally_, not figuratively. So after all is said and done Yin has _two _hostages, one of them a civilian, and we don't know where either of them are.

When O'Hara calls, and I hear her say those words that bastard is _forcing_ her to say, hear how calm and professional she's _trying to be _despite the fact that she's the prisoner of a sick mother fucker whose teeth I'd like to feed to him _individually_…well, let's just say it's a wonder I don't put my fist right through Spencer's face, just for being a handy target. When he figures out O'Hara is at the clocktower and the Chief says we can't give O'Hara priority, I know she's right. So fine, _send_ the entire goddamn PD out to rescue Lytar, if Spencer can figure out where she is - _I'm_ going for my partner. That's what partners are for.

_**Juliet**_

This…is not how I expected my story to end. I'm not like _Lassiter, _I don't _want_ to die gloriously in a blaze of gunfire saving the world from injustice, but if that was the way it had to be I could accept it. This…this is _not_ glorious. This is nasty, and brutal, and cruel and unusual, and a whole bunch of other things that I don't even want to think about right now, or ever. Not that I'm likely to get the chance.

I'm not scared. That's what I tell myself, anyway, what I've _been_ telling myself ever since I came to and realized where I _was, _who I was with. Carlton must be so angry with me, I can just imagine it. _Sweet Lady Justice, O'Hara, what were you _expecting_ would happen when you pulled a beer tap set up as part of a serial killer's sick game? Did you think that confetti and party balloons would just drop from the ceiling?_ It almost makes me smile, listening to that gruff, growly voice berating me in my own head. Then it almost makes me cry, because I know he's going to feel guilty about my…my…_my death._

I'm trying to stay cool, calm, and professional. I'm trying not to think about the fact that in a half hour or so I'm going to be a cool, calm, and professional grease stain on the street below. So far below. They'll save Abigail, and that's good. That's _right, _because Abigail is just an innocent bystander. I'm a cop, this is what I signed up for. Well, not _this, _exactly, but the whole…life-on-the-line-for-the-public thing. And it will all work out for the best in the end, because if _Shawn_ doesn't catch this guy, Carlton for sure as _hell _will now. He may not be psychic, but he's like a bulldog and he will _not_ give up, especially now…now that it's personal.

So I sit here and wait, because I have no choice but to sit and wait. I do not pray for rescue. I just think of the faces of my family, my friends, and I hope they'll be okay. The clock…keeps ticking.

_**Carlton**_

The clock is ticking as we race to the tower, and I pray to God we're not too late. Spencer sent his Official Stand-In along, which doesn't surprise me, but it seems like most of the department is right behind me, too, which does. Maybe the Incredible Spenstar couldn't figure out where Yin stashed Lytar, after all. I'll feel sorry for the poor girl later - she didn't deserve what she got, not even if she _was _stupid enough to fall for Spencer - but right now I don't have time.

Guster and I race into the building, and the Chief isn't far behind us. There's an out-of-order sign on the elevators, probably Yin's handiwork, and it might be a complete dupe but there's no time to waste checking. I barely hear Vick telling me that she's going to set up a perimeter - there's only one thing I care about right now, and she's at the top of a tall stairway. I lead, Guster follows. I don't know if he's behind me because he's too afraid of what we might find at the top to outpace me like he usually does, or if it's because he's a born follower and Spencer isn't _here_ for him to follow, or if I'm just moving too damned fast for him to do more than keep up. I _do _know that I've never climbed stairs so fast in my life.

Yin isn't here, and I didn't really expect him to be, but O'Hara is. The bastard has tied her to a goddamn chair and hung her off the side of the building, tethered by a hot wire to the face of the clock. I don't know that the hands of the clock would be enough to cut or dislodge that wire, and I don't care to find out. Thank God Guster is here - he keeps the minute hand still while I look for a way to stop it permanently. Apparently the mechanism is goddamned strong, because Guster is having trouble holding it. There's nothing else I can see to do, so I jam my Glock into the gears. I don't need the gun - if Yin shows his face he's going over the edge of this goddamn tower if I have to go with him.

_**Juliet**_

I hear the sirens and I know they've come for me. I hope that doesn't mean they haven't been able to find Abigail, because I wouldn't want to live knowing someone else had to die. I do allow myself to hope, a little, that there can be a happy outcome for both of us, but I don't let myself get carried away. They still have to get to me, after all, and I don't know exactly what kind of game Yin intends to play. The thought of Carlton charging to the rescue only to be met with tripwires and bombs…I can't think about that. If it's Carlton coming for me then he _would_ charge right through heedless of danger, because that's the way he is. He'd like everyone to believe that he's Mr. Logic but he's one of the most emotionally-driven people I know.

I can't take the thought of my partner being hurt because of me. I offer up a prayer to Whoever might be watching that he'll be okay.

And then my miracle happens, because he's there, he's there with…Gus? That comes as a bit of a surprise. I mean, Carlton and _Shawn_ I might have expected, or Shawn and Gus, but _Carlton_ and Gus? It's almost absurd enough to make me laugh if I weren't so close to crying at this point. One of them - I think it's Gus, but at this point they both sound like Tony Bennett for some reason, and I can't tell them apart at all - tells me that it's going to be okay, they're going to save me, and I nod to let them know I understand even though I'm really afraid to move. It _has_ to have been Gus, because Carlton wouldn't waste precious time trying to comfort me.

It takes them a long time, it seems, to do whatever it is they're doing. I don't know why they can't just grab the f-f-f-_flipping_ chair and pull me off this ledge, but maybe they're afraid Yin booby-trapped it, or that they might accidentally push me over in their haste. Finally I hear the yelling stop, and both men wrap their arms around me and haul me back from the abyss. Carlton works at getting me unstrapped from the chair while Gus gently pulls the duct tape off of my mouth. I hear Carlton radio in to Vick that I'm safe, and he sounds like Carlton again, not Tony Bennett.

Now there are people everywhere - Chief Vick, uniformed officers, EMTs. One EMT is buzzing around me like a fly, trying to get me to go with him to the hospital. Why on earth would I want to go to the hospital? I'm not hurt. Just leave me alone, dammit, just leave me be. But EMTs are harder to get rid of than ex-boyfriends and this one just _isn't _going away and I'm ready to slap him.

Then Carlton moves in. Carlton, the only person I know who can successfully intimidate an EMT, an ability that drives me nuts whenever I'm trying to get _him _treatment but which I bless wholeheartedly now as he sends my buzzing fly scurrying. I figure he'll leave me alone, that's all I want and God knows if it were _him_ he wouldn't let anyone close, but he doesn't go away. I'm angry with him for it - no, I'm _pissed _at him for it - but he won't leave me alone. Next thing I know, he has his arms around me, he's hugging me, and for once it's not awkward or half-hearted, he's got me and he's not going to let me fall. I can't help it. I'm safe and I'm with friends and there's no holding back everything I've been fighting so hard not to show. I crumple against his chest and I cry like a baby. I can hear him muttering words that don't make any sense to me, and I don't think they're supposed to - he's just talking so that I know he's here. He's here, and somehow I'm starting to think he always will be. For me. Because he's my partner.

_**Carlton**_

It's all turned out all right, thank God. Spencer and his father managed to save Lytar after all, and O'Hara is safe now, too. Of course that idiot Spencer managed to let Yin escape, but under the circumstances I suppose I understand. What I _don't _understand is why there wasn't a single uniformed officer with him, but maybe there wasn't time.

O'Hara is playing tough, which is a relief. I don't think she's quite as together as she's trying to make us think, and I can certainly understand that, but I'm not good at dealing with emotional breakdowns and seeing _her_, of all people, blubbering and wailing would leave me seriously out of my element so I'm glad she's not making it an issue. Or at least not yet. Frankly I'm not too sure how far off I am from my _own _breakdown. I don't like thinking about how close we cut it.

Vick comes up with the CSU and a handful of EMTs, and it's not my problem anymore. Except of _course _it's still my problem, she's my _partner, _dammit, we're meant to look after each other and I would help her now if I knew how.

And now I see that one of the EMTs has got hold of her, he's trying to make her go with him but the dumb bastard can't see he's only pushing her closer to losing control. I don't think about it, I just move. I muscle the guy out of the way and he finally gets the hint, but when I look at O'Hara again I realize I acted too late - she's losing it, and losing it fast.

I don't know what else to do so I reach out for her and she fights me. We're still on top of the tower and not too far from the edge, so if she gets hysterical there's a chance she'll end up going over. I don't have a choice. Drilled into me ever since my days at the Academy is the mantra _"control the situation," _so that's what I have to do. I grab O'Hara and pull her into a tight hold meant to keep an hysterical subject from hurting themselves or others. A civilian could be forgiven for mistaking it for a hug.

She crumbles and it's as bad as I feared it would be. I'm just not good with tears - ask my ex if you want to hear about it - and O'Hara's are harder to deal with than most, because I've gotten so used to her strength. But she's my partner, and she's hurting, and she needs me, so I'm here for her. While she cries I tell her all those stupid, inane things you're supposed to say - you know, "Calm down, it's okay, it's all right, everything's fine…" It doesn't mean anything and I know it. She doesn't have to calm down and everything _isn't_ fine, dammit, she was about a minute away from being road pizza, and if that doesn't give her a perfect excuse to flip out then nothing does. It's just what you're supposed to say. It doesn't matter if she hears me, or understands. I can stand here for hours, if she needs me to - hell, I can stand here for _days. _The only thing she has to know is I'm here for her. Because I'm her partner_._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents"

**THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS**

**Chapter Two: In the Long Watches of the Night (Except That it's Day)**

As the pale roseate light of dawn crept over the city its fingers stretched out and touched two figures on the roof of a clock tower, locked in a close embrace. It also touched the figures of CS officers and a distraught but utterly competent Chief of Police, but neither the man nor the woman he held took the slightest notice of any of them. Slowly, her tears subsided.

"Lassiter, O'Hara, I'm going to need both of you to write out statements concerning what happened here," Chief Vick said. "Mr. Guster already scribbled one out, I'm hoping _you, _Carlton, can expound upon his account a trifle. 'Juliet was hanging off the building we saved her' may be _accurate_ but not exactly professional. It…you don't have to do it right away. Take the day, both of you. O'Hara, take as long as you need."

Juliet didn't respond. "Thanks, Chief," Lassiter said.

"Detective O'Hara, are you positive you don't need to go to the hospital?" Vick said in concern. "You're in shock, it's perfectly natural - they could give you something to help you relax."

O'Hara shook her head vigorously against Lassiter's chest. "I just want to go home," she said in a very small voice. "Please take me home."

"Detective Lassiter, take O'Hara home," Chief Vick commanded, then in a more moderate tone she added, "please."

"Roger that, Chief. Come on, O'Hara, let's go." He tried to turn toward the maintenance door but O'Hara clutched the lapels of his jacket tightly and refused to let go. He tried to pry her off but each finger he loosened reattached itself the instant he moved on to the next, like trying to peel a cat off a velvet curtain. "O'Hara… Come on, you can't… Look, this isn't going to… Okay, but you'll have to let go when we get to the car - it's a _stick-shift_, for crying out loud."

He maneuvered her carefully down the long flights of stairs. When they reached the bottom Officer Buzz McNab was kind enough to hold the front door for them. "Did you walk all the way downstairs?" he asked. "CSU checked the elevator - turns out there was nothing wrong with it after all."

"Thanks for the heads-up, McNab," Lassiter growled through gritted teeth. "Where were you seven floors ago?"

He didn't wait for the answer McNab fumbled to give. The Crown Vic was sitting kitty-wampus on the sidewalk and he steered the nearly unresponsive woman in his arms to the passenger door. She didn't let go of him until he deposited her on the seat and put her legs inside. He closed the door and walked around the back to the driver's side.

"Seatbelt," he said as he closed the door and put the key in the ignition. O'Hara didn't move. He looked at her. The battle-fatigued expression on her face and general air of catatonia was disturbing, to say the least. "Are you _sure_ you don't want to go to the hospital, O'Hara?"

She shook her head so violently there seemed a real danger that it might roll right off her shoulders. "Okay, okay, home it is. Put your belt on," he said. She stopped shaking her head but made no move to obey vehicle safety regulations. Finally he leaned over and belted her in himself. He watched her for a moment before buckling his own belt. He was seriously disturbed by her behavior and considered taking her to the hospital anyway.

_She held it together when it mattered, _he thought. _I suppose she's well within her rights to freak out a little now._ Still, it was so incredibly…_wrong_…to see O'Hara like this. Weak. Vulnerable. Scared. Three words he'd never used to describe his partner since he met her, green as she was then. He allowed himself a single tired sigh and put the cruiser in gear. He pointed the vehicle's nose in the general direction of O'Hara's apartment building. At this early hour it was only a seven minute drive.

He pulled up outside the building and got out of the car. O'Hara still refused to move of her own volition, so he was forced to open her door, unbuckle her seatbelt, and bodily (albeit gently) remove her from the vehicle. Once again she clung in his arms like Spanish moss. He was glad her building was a single-story flat so he didn't have to drag her up any stairs. Her purse was where she'd left it when they first arrived at Yin's movie set, on the floorboard of the Crown Vic in the passenger side wheel well, and he grabbed it for her - a tricky maneuver with her in his arms.

"Are your keys in here?" She nodded. He fished them out and walked her to her door.

If he thought that being home would act as a magical panacea for O'Hara's condition he was wrong. She refused to let go of him even when he opened the door, so he took her inside. She allowed him to lower her onto the overstuffed sofa in the living room but when he tried to stand up she clutched at him again.

He gently clasped her hands. "Juliet, I'm going to make you some coffee. Okay?" A faint light of comprehension dawned on her face and her grip loosened. He went into her little kitchen and set up the coffeemaker. He was _very _worried about O'Hara.

He needed have been quite as worried as he was. Juliet might have been experiencing some of the symptoms of shock but she was far from catatonic. She was even beginning to recover from the terror she'd felt up there on that tower. But she was not ready to be alone, and she had already decided that the man who was with her now was exactly the company she needed and she wasn't about to let him make a run for it, which he no doubt would the instant he realized that she was, to some extent, laying back in the tall grass. So she continued to play mannequin because she knew he would never leave her alone in that condition.

She watched him without seeming to as he quietly bustled about her tiny kitchen. She was rarely in his presence when not at work, but given the nature of the job it still meant she was in his presence more often than anyone else in her life. She'd had a lot of time over the past four years to get to know him, and to form a strong opinion of him - he was arrogant, more than a trifle patronizing, and hated to share the spotlight or give over even a fraction of his authority. He was impatient, domineering, and socially inept. He could, on occasion, be an out-and-out asshole.

But he was also an excellent teacher and to her mind the best partner any cop could ask for. He challenged her and even if he didn't like to share credit for his accomplishments he never tried to take credit for hers and frequently attempted to shield her from or take the blame for her mistakes. He wasn't always the first man on scene when she needed a helping hand but comparing notes after the fact showed that he was _always _the first to rush to her defense. She was also one hundred percent certain that he was usually aware of when he put his foot in his mouth and that every cold, arrogant, aggravating word he said afterward was designed to make her and everyone else think he really was just an infuriating prick, because to him that was better than being thought of as an oaf or a buffoon. He hated being made fun of or laughed at but he was surprisingly tolerant of it from those select few he considered friends, even if he refused to admit to anyone that they _were_ friends. And he was the best friend she'd ever had, even if she sometimes felt she barely knew him at all.

He finally came back with two steaming mugs of coffee and she accepted hers with robotic movements. His eyes were locked on her face, wide and worried and as blue and infinite as the sky and she couldn't look into them and keep her cover so she stared into the dark brown depths of her beverage instead.

"O'Hara? Is there anyone I can call for you?" he asked, and damn him for thinking of that. She didn't respond, only continued to stare into her coffee cup. He sighed and sat down on the couch next to her. She immediately leaned back against his chest.

In lieu of a coaster he took out his handkerchief and folded it beneath his mug and set it on the coffee table. "O'Hara, maybe you'd feel better if you took off your shoes and jacket, eh? And your…shoulder holster. That asshole took your gun, didn't he? We'll have to get you a new one…er…soon. I guess." He helped her out of her blazer and while he was searching for a hangar for it she decided to take a reckless chance. Before he turned back to her she'd stripped out of not only her shoulder holster but also her blouse and skirt and stood nearly naked in the middle of her living room, eyes locked on her partner of four years. She hadn't thought his eyes could get any wider.

All he saw was peach-colored lace. He was so stunned that for a moment it didn't even register that what he was looking at was actually his partner's brassiere.

"Oh. My. Sweet Lady Justice," he exhaled. "Uh, O…O'Hara, I…well, I suppose that's getting comfortable, but _I'd _be more comfortable if you covered up a little."

There was a thick afghan on the back of the couch, a purple monstrosity patterned with pink roses that didn't fit with Juliet's style and had probably been crocheted by a grandmother or another elderly (and color-blind) female relative. Lassiter grabbed it and wrapped it around O'Hara's bare shoulders. She allowed it but when his arms were out she stepped into them and put her arms around his waist.

She hadn't really expected him to take her up on her unspoken offer, that hadn't exactly been her reason for making it. He was far too responsible and gentlemanly and "by the book" to take advantage of her and she probably wasn't in quite the most stable frame of mind after all, but he would keep thinking about it. He didn't have Shawn Spencer's eye for minutia, perhaps, but his memory was excellent and she knew he wasn't good at filtering out things he didn't want to think about. She knew how this scene would play - outwardly he'd give no sign that anything had changed between them, but his mind would churn for days or even weeks on that tantalizing glimpse she'd given him, wondering exactly what she'd meant by it, whether she'd been temporarily insane or if, on some level, she actually wanted him. She also knew that his outward arrogance belied his deep-seated insecurities and he was virtually incapable of coming to the latter conclusion on his own. But he would think. And that was what she wanted him to do. That, and stay with her.

"Okay, O'Hara, how about we sit you down?" She didn't let go so he lowered himself onto the couch along with her, and she fairly climbed into his lap. Snuggled into the admittedly horrible afghan (actually knitted for her by her _uncle, _who used crochet as a means of lowering his high blood pressure) and cuddled against his chest, she finally felt safe enough to let the fatigue of the too-long night lay claim to her.

Lassiter realized she was asleep about ten minutes after she actually succumbed. He looked at the coffee table, where sat his untasted coffee and the remote control for the television, both far out of reach. This day was going to be a very long night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents"

**THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS**

**Chapter Three: Thinkin' and Drinkin' 'Bout You**

It took a long time, but slowly life returned to normal. Almost.

After a brief stint riding a desk at City Hall, O'Hara returned to active duty, goaded on by Lassiter, Spencer, and even the Chief. She made no mention of the long day she'd spent wrapped in an ugly afghan in her partner's arms, and neither did he. In fact, he made no mention of _anything_ that happened that day, but she could tell he was thinking about it. She made certain it was never far from his mind in little ways, like "accidentally" touching his hand when she passed him his morning coffee, or leaning in just a little closer than she might ordinarily have done when they looked over files together. And she caught him watching her more and more often, his expression somewhere between curiosity and helpless longing. She was sorry to put him through what she recognized was a kind of torture, but she seriously doubted there was any other way to bring him around - at least not without getting tremendously aggressive and no doubt scaring the shit out of him. He probably wouldn't mind a little female initiative under ordinary circumstances, but Juliet knew she was a special case - she was his _partner_, and the job meant everything to him.

She often wondered about his previous partner, the one everyone said he'd been sleeping with. She wondered if it was true - he insisted to her that it was not, but would he lie about it to her? Yes, she thought he very well might. But it was also _extremely_ hard for her to imagine him ever doing such a thing, no matter how heartbroken and vulnerable he may have been in the immediate aftermath of his bitter separation from his now-ex wife. She sometimes thought she should try and contact Detective Berry and ask _her_ about the rumors, but since she didn't know the woman and her transfer had likely been due to those very rumors, it didn't seem like the most tactful option. But whatever had happened or hadn't happened between Lassiter and his former partner had only a peripheral effect on what Juliet intended should happen _now_.

Lassiter, for his part, hadn't the first least clue exactly what was going on. His obliviousness was partially voluntary, because _of course _O'Hara couldn't be…_coming on _to him. It was just the memory of that long morning he spent with her half-naked body in his arms while she slept away some of the horror she'd experienced. He still didn't understand why she'd stripped in the first place - was she so shell-shocked that she didn't know she'd done it or perhaps that he was even there to see…or had it been some sort of request? And if it were, was that request born wholly out of her fear and need for safety, or…? There wouldn't even have been a question mark in his thoughts if it weren't for those lingering fingers on his coffee cups, the way her eyes locked on his when she spoke to him and refused to let go.

It was maddening and painful, like an ingrown toenail on his heart. He just wasn't supposed to _think _these thoughts about O'Hara, and not just because such things were Strongly Discouraged by department policy. She was his _partner_, the person he relied on - who relied on _him_ - on a daily basis in situations that were all too frequently life-threatening. Sure, he'd always been…rather uncomfortably aware of how pretty she was, or how nice she looked in a certain pant suit or blouse, or how close she sat to him in the front seat of the cruiser, or how her hair always seemed to smell like peaches. Now he was having a hard time getting the image of peach-colored lace out of his head, and a hard time wondering what color her under things might be on any given day.

He wasn't much of a drinker in the ordinary scheme of things, but in the days following O'Hara's return to active duty and, consequently, daily close contact, he started frequenting the bars near his house more and more often. He drank to forget, but the alcohol acted more as a lubricant to his guilty memory and the more whiskey he tossed back, the more he thought about that tantalizing glimpse of peach-colored lace.

Finally one night he poured himself into the back seat of a taxicab after a long night holding down a barstool and when the cabbie asked where he was headed he said, without thinking, "1143a Oak Street." That was not his address. He could not, in his three-sheeted condition, recall whose address it was. Even when the car dropped him off outside and he staggered up to the door, he didn't recognize the place at all. He stood uncertainly on the doorstep for a moment, then rang the bell.

Juliet answered.

She didn't look like she'd been asleep, despite the lateness of the hour, but she was definitely not dressed for a date. Her hair was down and damp from the shower she must have taken very recently, and it curled into ringlets on her shoulders. She wore a lavender-colored robe and pink fuzzy mules.

"Carlton!" she said in surprise. "Hi, what brings _you_ by so late?"

He gaped at her and swayed uncertainly on his feet.

"Carlton…are you drunk?" O'Hara asked. He nodded helplessly - _Dear Sweet Lady Justice_, let her think it was just standard drunken stupidity that brought him here and not the memory of that peach-colored lace. "You'd better come in."

He wasn't so sure that was a good idea - he felt like he was sobering up rapidly, as though ice cold water had been dumped on his head - but his feet carried him across the threshold without his conscious volition. She pushed him down onto her couch and pulled that ugly purple afghan down on top of him.

"Here - sleep it off, big guy," she said kindly.

That seemed like a damn good idea. He couldn't exactly _will_ himself to sleep, but he was pretty close to passed-out drunk so it didn't take long for him to lose consciousness once he put his mind to it. O'Hara knelt on the floor next to the couch and stroked his hair. Poor Carlton, thinking he had to get drunk to make the first move, and then _still_ too tightly wound to act on the impulse. Well, when he sobered up she might have a few surprises for him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents"

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four: Hair of the Dog (or Cat)<strong>

Lassiter woke up to a pounding headache and the strange sensation of fur in his nose. His forget-me-not eyes blinked open and met the slitted golden green eyes of the cat curled possessively on his chest. It was the slowly twitching tip of the cat's tail that kept thwacking into his left nostril. Lassiter did not own a cat, nor did he recognize this one. He wasn't exactly _unfond_ of cats, but he was leery of individual specimens of the genus, particularly when he did not know them or the likelihood of them scratching his eyes out.

"Good morning."

At first, with the fur in his nose and the brass band in his head and the sneaking suspicion, by the fuzzy feeling of his shriveled tongue, that he may have accidentally swallowed the cat's sibling and it was now plotting revenge, he actually thought it was the cat who spoke. Then Juliet O'Hara's sunshine face peered over the cat's back at him, wreathed with a smile, and a wave of humiliation crashed over him as he remembered falling into a drunken stupor on her couch. The cat leapt off of him with a faint mew of indignation as he struggled to sit up.

O'Hara pushed a steaming hot mug of coffee into his hand, flavored just the way he liked it with cream and sugar. "I bet your head hurts like hell, doesn't it?" she said. Her voice was pitched low and gentle, in deference to his hangover, but it sounded like she was shouting.

He nodded, face contorted in a grimace of pain, and sipped gingerly at his coffee. Once he managed to wash some of the cat off his tongue he managed to grunt out a few hoarse words.

"Sorry, O'Hara," he said. "I don't drink like that very often." Although he _did, _these days, and the lie tasted as bad as the cat he still suspected he'd swallowed.

She laughed, lightly, but it let him know that she was well aware he'd lied. "It's okay, Carlton. You can crash with me any time you need to. You know that, right?"

There was something in her voice that struck his ear as slightly off. It was like there was a whole different layer underneath her innocent words, a realm an old-time cartographer would have labeled with the warning "Here there be sarpents." He couldn't let his mind wander into that realm because it was only in _his_ head, not hers.

That was when she reached out and touched his cheek, soft cool fingers on fever-hot flesh, and he blushed so red that the tips of his ears seemed almost to glow. It was an innocent touch, of course it was, but he didn't take it innocently at all. She smiled at his intensely consternated expression, leaned in, and kissed him.

The top of his head exploded, or at least that's what it felt like. He was still drunk, that was what it was, drunk and hallucinating. Maybe he'd gone further than just drinking, maybe he'd slid into drug abuse without ever realizing it. This felt like an LSD trip to him, not that he knew from experience.

She unbuttoned his shirt and slipped a hand inside to ruffle through his chest hair. The prickle and tickle of that felt very real and quite wonderful. It also felt very real when the hand was replaced by her lips as she kissed her way down from his mouth to the middle of his chest. So what if it was a drug-fueled hallucination borne of a desperate and hopeless attraction? There might be laws against _taking_ drugs but there weren't any against enjoying the experience once they were in your system. He wrapped his arms around her and she climbed on top of him. Eventually she broke off from kissing and grinding against him long enough to whisper three words in his ear.

"Finish your coffee."

Numbly, he complied. He noticed a faint burn to the drink unrelated to the actual temperature of the liquid. "Put a little Irish in it," she said, and winked at him. "Don't think you really need any more alcohol but no better fix for a bombed-out brain, is there?"

No amount of Irish coffee was going to fix his bombed-out brain, though the hangover did subside almost immediately. He finished off the drink and she climbed off of him. He felt absurdly disappointed - even his hallucinations couldn't stand to be near him - but then she grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him up off the couch, almost by main force. "Come on," she said, and took him by the hand. He followed where she led, like a dog on a leash only with a lot less free will. The room she took him to…was her bedroom.

Well, it didn't have to be _her_ bedroom, he supposed, it could well have been a _guest _room, if this apartment had any such amenity as a guest room. The point his brain insisted upon was that there was a BED IN THE ROOM, and she led him straight toward it. Panic set in. Is this exactly where he wanted this strange fever-dream to take him? Yes, yes it was. But he couldn't allow himself to cheapen his partner like this, not even in a hallucinogenic haze. She grabbed at his jacket again and held him steady when he tried to bolt.

"It's okay, Carlton," she said soothingly. "It's all right." She stretched up and kissed him as she pushed his jacked back over his shoulders and down his arms. In a straight-up battle between conscience and the taste of O'Hara's lips and tongue, conscience didn't stand a chance. He surrendered to the madness and allowed her to remove his jacket, holster, and shirt while they kissed and he ran his hands through her silken honey-gold hair. _Sweet Justice_, but he loved that hair.

She took a half step back from him and untied the cord of the robe she wore. For half a second after she allowed the garment to fall to the floor he saw peach-colored lace, but then he realized she wasn't wearing anything beneath it at all. Overwhelmed, he stepped to her and took possession of her mouth while his hands caressed her soft skin. Gently, maddeningly, she moved her lower body in a lazy shimmy against him.

_You fool,_ he thought, _you're going to ruin _another _partner's career because you can't keep it in your pants?_

Another portion of his brain spoke up. _Hallucinations don't ruin careers. Not as long as they don't make you take a drug test in the next month or so, at any rate._

_Jackass, you've never done drugs a single time in your life. And this is_ not _an hallucination._

But it _had_ to be, because O'Hara wasn't interested in him and there was no way in hell that she was now - _oh dear sweet Jesus she's unzipping my pants._

_Well there we have it, ladies and gentlemen - the standard issue American male, complete with standard issue American penis pre-set to derail a promising career,_ he thought as his slacks puddled on the floor around his feet. _This time, try and make sure it's only _yours_ that goes down in flames, 'kay, assmunch?_

It wouldn't be like last time. Last time he'd been naïve about office politics - he'd mistakenly assumed that as long as he and Lucinda continued to work together efficiently as they'd always done, then the revelation about their affair (not _against_ department regulations, per se, but STRONGLY DISCOURAGED, in all caps) wouldn't be an issue. But it _was_ an issue, of course, because any woman who would sleep with Carlton "Hardass" Lassiter had to be a total slut, right? And it was the sudden influx of come-ons from coworkers who ought to have known better that set Lucinda to apply for a transfer more than any Official Disapproval. He was no longer naïve enough to believe O'Hara would fare any better once word of this got out - and it _would, _of course, because the asshole whistle-blower was still around, wasn't he? And hitting on Juliet more than ever in the wake of his break-up with that Lytar woman.

Well, it was simple. Before his shift tomorrow morning Lassiter would go to the Chief and request a transfer. He would come up with some bullshit rationale - he could take a page from Lucinda's book and maybe _his _mother could have an industrial accident. No one needed to know about this except he and O'Hara, and he would _not_ let it come back to haunt _her_ any more than it had to. He was prepared to let it haunt _him _all it could.

Then he thought about moving to some jack-shit town and starting fresh as the "new guy" on some Podunk police force. The head detective there would be certain he was after his job, and _he'd _resent the head detective for having the job he'd worked so hard for so long to achieve. A soft whimper escaped his lips unrelated to the feel of the erect nipple that skated softly across the skin of his chest.

She pulled away from him and put a finger to his lips. "Don't even think about it," she said, and he wondered if she was somehow reading his mind. "And don't you dare even _consider _asking for a transfer."

"What are you, psychic?" he asked.

She laughed lightly. "You're not hard to read," she said. "Just stop thinking and love me, dammit."

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, and so he did.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents"

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five: That's the Way (Uh Huh Uh Huh) She Likes It<strong>

Juliet woke in the early afternoon, warm and cozy in the arms of her partner. She felt wonderful, relaxed and thoroughly happy, but his body felt like a live wire in her arms. She smiled to herself even as she sighed at his apparently categorical inability to simply give in and relax. He was probably thinking about applying for a transfer again, or giving himself a mental beating for lack of professionalism.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. He was trying like hell to be asleep, which was an interesting thing to see. She kissed the tight, thin line of his mouth and he relaxed a nearly imperceptible fraction.

"I am going to take a bath," she whispered. "You're welcome to join me if you want to."

His left eye twitched beneath his shuttered lashes. She giggled softly and slipped out of his embrace. She pulled on her robe and padded on bare feet into the adjoining bathroom where she drew a hot bath and added aromatherapy salts to the water. She left the door open. Even though he had his back to her, she heard a faint whimper when her robe hit the cool white tile floor and he turned over onto his stomach and crossed his arms over the top of his head as though to protect himself from falling objects.

She slipped beneath the water and allowed herself a moment to simply soak in the heat and scent with her eyes closed. She heard more whimpering from the bedroom when she began to wash herself. She never figured Lassiter for a whimperer, but he was undoubtedly a severely conflicted person right now. Poor man, she did feel sorry for him - she wasn't a sadist by nature, after all, but he was just going to have to suffer a little before she managed to completely bring him around. Carlton Lassiter was no peanut, he was a Brazil nut with a rock-hard shell, and he was going to be tough to crack.

Eventually she heard him stir again. She watched from the tub as he climbed out of bed and started to collect his scattered clothing, all while carefully keeping his face averted. When he moved to pull on his boxer shorts she called out to him.

"Come on in here, Carlton."

He jumped like she'd shot at him, and suddenly it seemed the manipulation of an elastic waistband was beyond his dexterity. She laughed at his fumbling. "You can leave those off if you want to. That's right, come on - don't be shy."

But he _was_ shy, of course, painfully, ludicrously shy, at least considering the fact that she'd already seen his naked body and done quite a bit more than just looked, too. He shuffled into the bathroom with his gaze still carefully averted, his hands crossed in front of himself in ineffective cover. Juliet's lips quirked in a salacious smile. Big feet, large hands with long fingers, a fairly bodacious nose and big ears - every urban myth about male "indicators," in point of fact, and in this instance proportion held true. He stopped just inside the doorjamb.

She crooked a finger at him. "Come on, big boy, closer." He took a couple of hesitant steps. "You know, I could start to feel a little insulted, like maybe you regretted making love to me."

He looked at her then, eyes wide and round in panic. "Oh God, I do," he said fervently. She gasped in indignation and he floundered for words. "No, not - I don't mean it like that, I mean…I shouldn't have…we never should have…"

"Carlton. Relax," she commanded. His jaw snapped shut. "Now come over here and help me wash my back."

He knelt by the edge of the tub and reached out gingerly for the sponge she handed him. She leaned forward and he touched the loofah to her skin with all the confidence of a man touching a glowing halogen hotplate. She watched him narrowly from the corner of her half-closed eyes. He wasn't going to relax and he still refused to look at her. It was time to do something about that.

She reached out her arm and drew him in for a deep kiss. He dropped the sponge. He still wasn't taking any initiative so she helped him out - took his hand and placed it upon her breast in the water. That did the trick. He deepened the kiss even further and his thumb stroked lazy circles around her nipple. She broke away long enough to whisper in his ear.

"Let's have a nice bath, and then decide what we're going to do with the rest of our day," she said. "What I'm thinking is, we go out and you can buy me dinner, or we stay in and I'll make it. Either way…"

She said something else, but he couldn't understand quite what it was. The logical portion of his brain insisted her words were "I'll _buy_ dessert," but his ears kept telling him she'd said "I'll _be _dessert." Either way seemed fraught with possibilities.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents"

**A/N: **Foodie porn. Love writing it.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six: Hey Good Lookin', Whatcha Got Cookin'?<strong>

Lassiter hadn't gotten much honest sleep since waking up with his initial hangover, but after so much exercise, and a not-so-leisurely bath, he slept for several hours that afternoon. He woke in the early evening alone in Juliet's bed. He got up, pulled on his shorts, socks, pants, and shoes, but couldn't locate his shirt. He grabbed his jacket and holster and left the bedroom.

The mystery of the missing shirt was cleared up when he found O'Hara dancing in the kitchen, doing a fair imitation of Tom Cruise and wearing nothing but a pair of white socks and his shirt. "Oh hey, hi," she said as she slid to a stop on the slick linoleum. She hit the pause button on her IPod dock. "Dinner's almost ready."

Even if the sight of her prancing on her toes in his thin, almost translucent white shirt - which he would never, ever wash again - hadn't left him speechless, he probably wouldn't have been able to come up with a response for her. She didn't seem to expect one. She stepped up to him, placed the flat of her hand on his bare chest, and stretched up to kiss him. He kissed back, although he didn't try to take it any further than that. He didn't have the energy.

Okay, so it was fairly obvious to him at this point that, for some doubtlessly insane reason, O'Hara was momentarily interested in him. He would enjoy it while it lasted and face the consequences when necessary. It was not the way he preferred to do things, but relationships had never been his strong suit and they _never_ went the way he wanted them to.

"I hope you like what I'm making," Juliet said. "Your taste is a little hard to figure out, since with you being knowledgeable about food doesn't necessarily mean you'd rather have caviar than French fries. But I kind of thought you'd land somewhere in between gourmet and gourmand, so we're having top sirloin steak, seasoned new potatoes, corn on the cob, and cornbread biscuits. Manly and American."

"Sounds delicious. Smells even better," he said honestly.

"Good, because if you didn't want it I'd be forced to eat your portion, which would play hell on my diet. I'm _starving."_

"You don't need to diet," he grumbled. "What the hell are you on a _diet _for?"

She laughed. "I'm not. And thank you for being offended at the suggestion that I might be. It may not be an explicit compliment but I'll take it as implied."

She bounced back to the stove and turned the steaks sizzling in the frying pan. "I hope you don't mind that I'm wearing your shirt," she said over her shoulder. "I've been careful not to get anything on it."

"No problem," Lassiter said, and sat down at the little kitchen table to watch her. "It looks much better on you than it ever has on me."

"Do you like your steak medium or well? Or, you know, '…just knock its horns off, wipe it's smelly ass, and throw it up here on my plate?'"

"The latter. Although medium works, too."

"Perfect." She forked the steaks out of the pan onto a waiting platter and began making up two plates, which she brought over to the table. "What would you like to drink? I've got red wine."

"I…don't think I'd better do any more drinking for awhile," Lassiter said, with a flush of embarrassment. "Just water would be fine, thanks."

"Sounds good to me," she said, and poured two tall glasses from a pitcher she took from her refrigerator. She added a little ice to hers but not his - he didn't like ice in his drinks because he had cold-sensitive teeth, a minor detail she'd picked up from her tenure as his partner.

She pulled her chair around to sit beside him rather than across from him. "Here, try some of this cornbread," she said, and broke off a corner of her piece. "I baked it myself. Old family recipe."

There was a perfectly good piece of cornbread sitting on his own plate, covered in melted butter, but still she held that small piece of hers out in her fingers, with a smile on her lips and a sparkle in her eyes that looked damnably mischievous. He kept his eyes locked on hers and opened his mouth. She popped the cornbread in and her fingers lingered. He sucked the butter off of them while the cornbread crumbled on his tongue.

"Well? What do you think?" she asked.

"Tastes like cake," he said hoarsely, and damned if maybe he wasn't as tired as he thought.

"Try the potatoes, I used a new seasoning mix I found at a little Italian market downtown." She held out a spear of herb-coated potato. He ate it and licked the seasoning off her fingers, eyes still locked on hers. "Good?"

"Delicious." He leaned in and kissed her deeply, imparting the flavor of the Italian seasoning mix to her tongue with his. He was flushed with heat and no longer remotely tired _or_ hungry.

"Mmm…maybe we could put our plates in the oven and start with dessert?" Juliet said in a dreamy voice.

"What's for dessert?" Lassiter asked.

"Me."

"Sweet Lady Justice, _yes."_


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents"

**A/N:**This was almost the end of this story (there WAS going to be a sequel) but I decided to let things continue for awhile longer. I promise this won't be the tortuous, agonizing crap that's going on in SHOTS.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven: In Fair Verona<strong>

"I think I'm stuck to you."

Lassiter opened his eyes. They hadn't made it any farther than the living room, where they now lay together in a tangle of naked limbs on her couch, partially wrapped in that awful purple afghan. Juliet was pressed face down on his chest and her words were muffled by his chest hair. She did seem unusually adherent on his body, whether by friction or sweat or…other fluids. Even her hair clung damply to his skin. It was easy to imagine having to peel her off of him like a Band-Aid except he suspected it would sting a lot more, and not physically, either.

He tried to say something but his mouth wouldn't work. He tried to raise the hand that dragged the carpet but couldn't. He lay there beneath her as weak and helpless as a red snapper under a filleting knife, every muscle on fire. It was _almost _a familiar feeling - he had a tendency to overextend himself while working out, particularly when the department's annual 10K run for charity was approaching - but it wasn't just the dull ache and hypersensitivity in his groin that made Marathon Sex a completely unique sort of tapped-out.

She seemed to be feeling something of the sort herself. After several aborted attempts to pick herself up she finally succeeded in sliding off him to the floor. The sensation gave him a nice mule-kick to the heart and he summoned the energy to sit up for exactly two seconds before he flopped bonelessly back onto the cushions.

She plucked weakly at his dangling hand. "Come on, we need food," she mumbled. She managed to stand up but when she tried to drag him off the couch by the arm she succeeded only in pulling herself off her feet and face-planting into his chest again. She lay there for a moment and then giggled, which tickled and charged his batteries just a little bit more.

Even so, it was mostly sheer grit and determination that finally forced his incompliant body up to a sitting position, and more so that finally put him on his feet with Juliet sagging in his arms. He half-dragged her into the kitchen and sat her at the table. The ice in her glass had melted. He was only surprised the water hadn't boiled away. He turned off the oven and pulled their mostly untouched plates out of the heat.

Eating proved to be another obstacle not easily overcome. Both of them seemed more likely to use the well-cut (if not by this time slightly dry) steaks as pillows rather than as protein. Finally they sat with their arms around each other and their foreheads pressed together, propping each other up while Lassiter awkwardly cut meat and fed them both with only his right hand. A few bites of food perked him up quite a little, and the stringy, trembling feeling in his muscles faded a bit. She seemed more alert as well, but showed no inclination to remove her arms from around his neck. He hadn't intended this to become yet another sexual exercise, but damned if having her eat out of his hand wasn't _twice _as hot as eating out of hers. There was no chance in hell of another round under the covers - the days of endless energy and near-priapic teenage arousal were long behind him - but an erection was only the most obvious result of male horniness. All of the _others_ seemed to be constant companions now.

She snuggled into his clavicle and chewed a bite of potato he fed her. She was immensely happy to take his long, thin fingers into her mouth, to taste him even as she tasted her preempted dinner. Food had never been a sexual device for her before, but if she had many more meals like _this_ with Carlton then she was probably going to have to go on that diet after all. She was aware that she had chosen a most unlikely Romeo, a man to whom barks and growls were more natural than measured, even speech, but she rather liked his crustiness. It provided good cover for what she was discovering was a deliciously marzipan center, a secret treat she wanted to keep all for herself. And for all of his brashness and the harsh face he showed to the world, he had proven himself a gentle and considerate lover - and quite adept. There was a motherlode of passion in his well-guarded heart she had every intention of mining to its furthest vein. And he was a man of many surprises, too.

"'But soft…what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,'" he whispered. He was not the first man to trot out that quote, but he was the first to speak it in such tones of mixed reverence and embarrassment that made it feel romantic instead of desperately corny. He'd also said it so softly that she was certain she hadn't been meant to hear it at all. In truth, he was unaware he'd actually said the words aloud.

He buried his face in her hair and took a deep lungful of her scent. He felt very much like the star-crossed hero of Shakespeare's immortal romantic tragedy, a foolish boy in love with an impossible dream and willing to destroy himself to keep it. He'd actually never had a very high opinion of _Romeo and Juliet _- the heart of the romance lay in the very fact that the lovers were doomed, and if they hadn't been so set on the idea of killing themselves then eventually they would have realized that you can spend only so many hours gazing worshipfully at someone before you notice that they have some annoying habit or other. In four years he hadn't noticed much of anything annoying about O'Hara, except perhaps her relentless perfection. He'd given her _plenty_ of evidence to consider, he knew. He had habits that were quirky, others that were eccentric, some that were downright OCD, and even a few that bordered on the psychotic. She rarely commented or complained about any of them, but that was professionalism at play, surely. Give her one week as his girlfriend before she would _want_ him to poison himself.

It made him sad to think such things even as he held her and fed her tidbits of food from his plate. He didn't _want _this to be an impossible dream, doomed to die in its infancy. He had to keep his mind focused on the facts.

Fact: He was in Juliet's house, completely naked, holding her, also completely naked, hand-feeding her.

Fact: He'd spent most of the day and part of the night before engaged in some of the most intense and satisfying sex he'd ever experienced. With Juliet.

Fact: Juliet probably knew him better than anyone else on the face of the planet, with the possible exception of his ex-wife who had not known him even a quarter as long before having sex with him and committing to a doomed relationship.

Fact: Juliet had just licked a drizzle of cornbread butter off of his chest despite the carpet of springy, graying hair that covered it.

Fact: As incredible as it seemed, all of this - the sex, the nudity, the cornbread, the licking - was something that Juliet was not only compliant with, but _she had actually initiated it all._

Just like his last partner, as a matter of fact, who like Juliet O'Hara had been something of a tigress masquerading as a docile kitten. Lassiter had noticed that there seemed to be a trend in his life of being surrounded by women who made him feel like a Chihuahua pretending to be a Doberman Pinscher, from his mother and her girlfriend to his sisters to the Chief and his partner. He didn't mind it that much, in fact he rather admired it. His _mom_ could be a bit frightening but overall he respected a woman who wasn't afraid to tell him to shut it - or in O'Hara's case, to threaten to shoot him if he told _her _to shut it.

But there was one other undeniable fact niggling at the back of his brain. Detective Lucinda Berry, who had been the only person he took into his confidence at the time Victoria left him, who had let him bitch and moan and come close to actual honest-to-goodness tears in front of her and who had said all the right things, all the things he'd needed to hear someone say in that dark time, including the magical phrases _"Come to bed, darling" _and _"I love you, Carlton," _hadn't even said goodbye to him before moving away and out of his life forever. That kind of rejection, so hard on the heels of his wife's final parting shots, was hard to recover from.

"Is this…real?" he asked, more than a little afraid to hear the answer.

Juliet lifted her head from where it rested against his shoulder and looked at him, her blue eyes wide and solemn. "You're not dreaming, if that's what you think."

He shook his head, temporarily at a loss to explain himself. "What I mean is…this. You and me, here, together. Risking an awful lot. Is it…genuine?"

"I'm still not quite sure I understand you," Juliet said. "If you're asking me whether I _wanted_ this to happen, then you're being a little silly. We wouldn't be sitting here together like this if I didn't want it." She reached down and gave him a little squeeze where the nerves were still intensely over-stimulated. He let out an inadvertent squeak which he stifled in her hair.

"_N_-no, what I mean is, this isn't just…another version of…'Fun With Lassie,' is it?"

She stopped playing with his body and looked at him again. Her mouth was a thin white line and her eyes were furious. "You think this is some sort of practical joke? That I'd…_give_ myself to you just so I'd have something to laugh about later with Shawn and Gus? That's it, isn't it? That's what you think is going on here."

"_No! _God, no. No, that's not what I meant at all, I know you'd never do something like that. But you're a…a liberated woman and a lot more….modern…than I am, and…Juliet, I - I just need you to tell me…whether this…_us_…means anything."

His hesitations seemed to say a lot more than his words. Juliet felt her cold fury fade, replaced with a mixture of affection, sadness, pity, and no small degree of puzzlement. "You mean you want to know whether this is just a fling."

He let out a heavy sigh. "Yeah. I mean, it's okay if it is, I'm not asking for anything more…"

Again his hesitation spoke volumes. His mouth formed the words to tell her that it was okay if she intended to stomp on his heart in stiletto boots, but the way they trailed off begged her not to. Affection swelled into something warmer and deeper even as pity wrung a tear from her eye.

"Oh Carlton, that's too bad. Because _I'm_ asking for more. I'm asking for all the 'more' you're willing to give me."

His lips split in a slow, shy smile. "You mean you…want to be my girlfriend?"

Juliet laughed lightly and kissed him. "For starters."

His wide-ocean eyes were vast and depthless. "…Why me?" If he'd said it in a slightly different tone of voice she might have been insulted, but yet again his hesitation communicated his true intent.

"Because. You're my _partner."_


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents"

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight: Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me<strong>

Cuddled close in Lassiter's arms in the early morning hours, molded to the contours of his body, Juliet experienced something she had never really felt before: she didn't want to have to get up and go to work. In the short space of one day he'd completely spoiled her - working at arm's length would be difficult if not impossible.

He seemed no more eager to roll out of bed and into the day, rather flattering given his usual gung ho. In fact he held her so tightly that she could scarcely breathe, not that she felt like complaining about it. Honestly, she couldn't imagine ever wanting him to let go. She snuggled against his chest and sighed her contentment.

"Are you…scared? About today?" he asked quietly.

"Not in the least. But I'm not looking forward to it. I'd much rather spend the day making love to you."

He blushed bright red but couldn't repress his grin. "I second that motion," he said emphatically. "But…I am a little scared."

She could guess how much that seemingly simple admission cost him. "What are you afraid of?" she asked.

"I don't think I could hide the way I feel right now from _McNab_, let alone Spencer," he confessed. "If it gets out at the station that you and I are…together…it will be _you_ who pays the highest price for it. Vick _might_ ship me off to some other department but you'll…well, you'll be the one getting most of the catcalls. It's not right and it's not fair, but that's the way it is. I don't…think I could stand that. Not again. Definitely not with you."

"Calm down, Carlton. No one is going anywhere. _If_ they find out - and that's a big if, Carlton, and _if _the Chief doesn't like the fact that we've taken our partnership to the next level then I'll have a few things to say to her about it. I'll _convince_ her that we belong together. Everyone else? They can suck it."

Looking into her eyes, fierce and prideful and full of love for him, he could almost believe that everything would be exactly as easy and as _perfect_ as she said. He stroked a stray lock of hair out of her face and kissed the tip of her nose. "It's a pretty small if, actually," he said. "They're bound to figure out _something _is off about us today even if I do manage to hold it together."

"Why is that?" she asked.

He sighed. "Because unless we get up and get going _right now _then we're both going to have to go to work in your Beetle and I'll be wearing the same suit, shirt, tie, and socks that I've had on for two days already, and they're not exactly tremendously clean or well-pressed at this point. And my shirt smells very much like _you, _which is nice but kind of a giveaway."

"Where's the Crown Vic?" Juliet asked.

"At my apartment. My personal vehicle is still sitting at Tom Blair's Pub…I hope."

"I really don't _want_ to get up and get going _right now," _Juliet pouted, and played with his chest hair.

"God, neither do I."

"Think we could call in sick?" she suggested slyly.

"I'd love to, but apart from the improbability of both of us being at death's door at the same time, Karen would never let _both _of us call in unless we actually _were _at death's door. And I've _never _called in sick, so people would definitely wonder."

"Well, then maybe we should just walk right into Chief Vick's office and tell her we're together. It's got to be better than letting her find out on her own."

His slow, steady heartbeat speeded up alarmingly, but he gulped and said, "You're probably right. But I would feel a lot better about it, and I think we'd make a better case for continued partnership, if I were properly dressed."

"You have a point." She sighed. "All right, we'd better get up, then."

She dragged herself out of bed and began putting herself together for the day. Lassiter moved to follow her lead, but was halted by the sight of her naked body in the pale morning light. She was so beautiful, so _perfect_, and the most amazing thing about it was that there were small, lightly-colored bruises on her soft pale skin, marks left by _his_ over-eager mouth.

She caught his open-mouthed stare and smiled lasciviously at him from over one coy shoulder. "You like what you see?" He swallowed the dry lump in his throat and nodded mutely. "I suppose there's no chance we can put that…_interest_ to good use?"

It was the hardest thing he could remember ever having to say. "Nnnnnn-_no," _he groaned. "We've got to get to _work."_

"Planning on bringing a whole new meaning to the term 'working _hard,' _are you?"

"I need to take a shower," Lassiter said miserably. "As cold as possible. Maybe fill the tub with ice."

She smiled and turned to him. She held out her arms and her smile was open and welcoming. "Come here, darling," she said.

He couldn't resist such an invitation, even though the clock continued to tick away the seconds merrily. He went to her and folded his arms around her. She put one arm around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder and one hand on his chest. She nuzzled him and her hand slipped down his body to his erection. His eyes fluttered closed as she tenderly but efficiently stroked him off.

Even as he shuddered out his passion his mind churned with worries, primarily concerned with being torn from her either by departmental disapproval or by his own oafish nature. He could tolerate - barely - the idea of having to take another partner as long as _somehow_ he managed to hold on to Juliet in his private life.

"Please don't give up on me," he groaned into her beautiful peach-colored hair. "That's all I can ask you. I know I'm not…easy to put up with. Just…try, please. And I'll try my best to be a better man."

She laughed. "It's going to be okay, Carlton. I know how tenacious you are, but perhaps you're overlooking the fact that I can be just as stubborn? Scottish, you know. If _you_ ever try to leave _me_ I'm likely to paint my face blue and chase after you waving a seven-foot sword. Speaking of which, we're going to have to make arrangements for you to meet my family."

He groaned. "I _already_ met your family, remember? And completely whiffed it."

"Not _completely_, and it's partially my fault for not warning you in advance about certain O'Hara family holiday traditions. My nephews actually did say later that they liked you, you were just a little bit…_louder _than they were used to. And my mother thought you were very handsome."

"She wasn't the one wearing inch-thick glasses who kept calling me 'Colin,' was she?"

"No, that was Aunt Abigail," Juliet giggled. "Mom was the one in the peach cardigan who kept trying to make you try Nana's haggis."

He shuddered. "Don't get me wrong, I like intestine as much as the next guy, but…"

Juliet laughed. "When do I get to meet _your_ mother?" she asked.

He shuddered again. "You don't want to," he said. "Believe me. You could probably meet my _Other Mother_, but they're hard to separate."

"Your…'Other Mother?'" Juliet asked. "Your stepmother?"

"Not exactly." He blushed uncomfortably. "Er…Mom is still _legally_ married to my father, even though they haven't lived together since I was in high school. Althea is her…live-in girlfriend."

She pulled away just far enough to stare at him. "Carlton Lassiter, are you putting me on?" she demanded in a voice half shocked and half laughing.

He shook his head solemnly. "They've been together since I was at the Academy. I…didn't exactly take it well when I first found out, but Althea is a genuinely awesome lady. I've kind of come around to a point where I wish she'd been in the picture when I was a kid. Mom would have made a much better Dad than the one I had."

Juliet giggled. "Now I've _really_ got to meet your mother," she said. "Both of them."

"I suppose if you can take fifteen minutes in my mother's company without running away screaming that would serve as a pretty good litmus test for how well you'll be able to put up with _me," _he said. "Come on, we've got to get moving."


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents"

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine: The Long Walk to the Chopping Block<strong>

They didn't have much time to spare by the time they finally raced each other out the door of Juliet's little apartment, but a double-check of his watch showed Lassiter that there was, barely, enough time to recover his aging Chevy Malibu from the bar parking lot and run home for a hurried change of attire. He'd be cutting it painfully close, but he was confident that he could manage to make it to the station with a few minutes to spare.

Juliet laughed at him when he wedged himself into the passenger seat of her little lime-colored Volkswagen. Even with the seat pushed back as far as it would go he sat with his knees nearly hitting him in the chin. He glared at her but the corner of his mouth twitched humorously.

"If vehicle manufacturers keep making cars smaller and smaller like they're doing, pretty soon I'm going to gather a coalition of American males and lead a revolt against the automotive industry. Anyone over five foot eight needs a little freakin' _leg room_, dammit. Cripes, could you imagine _McNab_ trying to sit in this seat?"

She giggled at the mental image. "Oh, he couldn't ride in my car. I'd have to get some bungee cords and tie him to the roof."

She drove him to Tom Blair's Pub, where he found his red Malibu safe and sound in the back lot, neither stolen nor towed. "I'll see you in just a few minutes, dear," he said, and gave Juliet a kiss in parting. She waved goodbye and pulled out of the lot with a double-beep of the Beetle's bicycle horn. With no time to waste, Lassiter hopped behind the driver's seat of his car and raced home. He was tempted to put the portable cherry-light on the roof but restrained the impulse to abuse his authority. Once at his apartment he rushed the process of donning clean clothes. The inevitable result was a double Windsor knot in his tie that wasn't even close to centered, but he didn't have time to waste fixing it. He ran his comb through his hair haphazardly on the way out the door.

He pulled the police cruiser into his reserved parking space with minutes to spare, and found Juliet leaning against the back bumper of her little Volkswagen with her arms and ankles crossed, waiting for him. He'd expected her to go into the station first, but while the thought of walking inside side-by-side scared the hell out of him it also made him feel just a little bit proud.

"Hold it," she said. She quickly reknotted his light blue tie and smoothed the lapels of his charcoal jacket. "There, much better. This is my favorite tie, by the way - really brings out those gorgeous eyes of yours. God, I just want to go _swimming _in them."

His heartbeat resembled the panicked fluttering of a sparrow trapped indoors, and not just because he was nervous about the impending Reveal. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have a woman fussing over the knot in his tie or the lay of his jacket. Damn, but he'd missed that.

"Careful," he cracked with a weak and trembling smile. "Shark-infested waters."

She kissed him. "I don't care. I've met Jaws, and he doesn't scare me that much."

"Well, we'd better get inside before I lose my nerve," he said. "Or I start ravaging you right here on the roof of this ridiculous little car."

"Oo, intriguing concept. But I understand, Detective Lassiter - let's go."

They walked into the building. Lassiter couldn't help but notice that they drew quite a few looks on the way in - either because of how close they stayed to each other or because their audience had played witness to that brief, relatively innocent kiss. He attempted to square his shoulders and don his fiercest glare, but he just wasn't feeling it. He was too damned _scared _to be intimidating right now, and too happy.

They walked past Reception, where that loopy Officer Allen with the psychic obsession watched them with tea saucer eyes. It was slightly easier to glare at _her_, but only by a little. It was obvious that, crack-brained or not, she could tell _exactly_ what was different about the Head Detective and his junior partner, which meant that they were broadcasting pretty goddamned loudly. By the end of the day the entire station would know that, once again, Carlton Lassiter was schtupping his cute little female partner. He could feel the flames licking up around the curling edges of their crumbling careers. Juliet was right - they _had_ to tell the Chief themselves, and right away before she had a chance to hear the scuttlebutt doubtlessly already circulating the bullpen. The one thing working in their favor was that there'd been no sign of either a black motorcycle or a blue Toyota Echo on the street outside.

They approached the glass-walled box that was Chief Vick's office. She awaited them in the open doorway, arms folded across her chest, an inscrutable expression on her face. _Shit._

"Detective Lassiter, O'Hara - I need you both in my office now. Close the door." She disappeared inside. Lassiter shared a worried glance with Juliet and she reached out to give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"It'll all work out all right," she said. "Don't be scared."

"Me? Scared? Never happen," he said. "I'm _terrified. _Well…the guillotine won't wait forever, will it, Marie Antoinette?"

"That it will not, Louie my King."

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Vive la France, mon cour," he said.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ten: Stay of Execution<strong>

"Detectives, I'd like you to meet Carlos Reyes, Chief of the San Francisco Police Department," Chief Vick said as they entered her office. The tall, grey-haired man standing beside her desk nodded politely. "Chief Reyes, this is my Head Detective, Carlton Lassiter, and his partner Juliet O'Hara."

"Pleased to meet you both," Reyes said, and offered a round of handshakes. "Particularly _you_, Detective Lassiter. Your reputation is why I'm here today."

_My reputation? _Lassiter thought wildly. _For drawing my gun on innocent civilians? For drawing my _other _service weapon on any and all female partners up to and possibly including those of the canine persuasion?_

"Carlton's fame has spread all the way to San Francisco?" Juliet joked lightly, stepping into the breach of Lassiter's confusion. "Can't say I'm surprised, though I am a little dubious that you drove five hundred miles just to shake his hand. What's going on in San Francisco that you need my partner for?"

Reyes sighed and the corners of his already turned-down mouth turned down even further. "I only _wish _I'd come just to shake hands," he said. "The fact is I've got big problems, and I need help. There've been a rash of murders in my jurisdiction and it looks like a serial killer. I've had my men working overtime on it but we haven't gotten very far. The State Police and the Feds are still letting me head up the investigation but it won't be long before they step in and take the reins away. I don't mind who gets the credit as long as this sick SOB gets caught, but I'd like to be able to say I gave it my all before it's out of my hands. That's why I'm here, detectives. Your department's record for clearances on just this kind of case is the most impressive in the state, and I'm told Detective Lassiter's reputation for relentlessness is well-deserved. I'm planning an undercover sting that I hope will nab this killer and I think that this team would be perfect for it. I want to borrow the two of you away from Santa Barbara."

"Ah," Vick said. "I suspected as much when you called me, Carlos. I hope you understand that Detective Lassiter does not…exactly…have a flair for undercover work? And they just came off a case that was quite traumatic, to say the least."

"I understand, Karen. I know all about what happened to Detective O'Hara, but I've heard it said by no less an authority than Detective Lassiter himself that Juliet O'Hara has got more grit than a platoon full of seasoned marines, and I'm hoping that's true. I'm also hoping that it's mostly Detective Lassiter's local notoriety that precludes his undercover work. His face isn't as widely known as his name in San Fran."

"Did you really say that about me?" Juliet whispered to Lassiter.

"Er…I might have…on one or two occasions."

"That is so sweet of you."

"Uh…really? Well then, you're welcome, I guess."

"Well, while I don't exactly relish the idea of relinquishing my best team," Chief Vick said, "I certainly understand the urgency of this case and I'm certain we all appreciate the implied compliment. Detectives, I leave it up to you."

Lassiter looked at Juliet. "I…think we probably have to take a little time to talk about it, don't you, O'Hara?"

"Probably a good idea," she said. "We have something we wanted to talk with Chief Vick about, after all, which may have some peripheral effect on this…"

"Understood, detectives," Chief Reyes said. "Take some time to decide - Karen has my cell phone number. I'll be in town for the night and head back to San Francisco tomorrow morning. I hope by then to have you on board."

Another round of handshakes and the man left. Vick eyed her head detective and his partner speculatively. "You said you had something to speak with me about?" she asked.

"Yes, Chief," Lassiter said courageously. "Er…you…might want to sit down…"


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eleven: Official Sanction<strong>

"What's this about, Detective?" Chief Karen Vick asked. She sat down behind her desk and eyed her officers suspiciously. "You both look just a little bit guilty about something."

Lassiter took a deep breath, and Juliet's hand crept into his. Vick saw and her face clouded over instantly. "For heaven's sake, Carlton, _again? _Did you learn _nothing_ from last time? _Men."_

"It's not Carlton's fault," Juliet defended. "It was my idea, Chief."

"You'll get your turn in a minute, O'Hara, right now I want to take a nice long look in the head of my top officer. You know, Carlton, the only reason I didn't pawn you off on some other department _last time _is because I was still fairly new to my position and was only Interim Chief at the time. You didn't exactly endear yourself to me in those days - Chief Fenich's head detective or not, I considered you _highly expendable_. I just didn't want to stir things up too much while my job was still uncertain."

"I understand, Chief," Lassiter said meekly. "And I just want to say that if you decide a transfer is in order then I hereby volunteer. I don't want Juliet to pay for my stupidity."

She elbowed him sharply in the side. "Ass. You're saying that being with me is _stupid?" _Then to Vick she said, "Karen, you can't transfer Carlton, the SBPD needs him. And I _refuse_ to be transferred. If you don't want to let us stay partners then give Carlton someone else. Bust me back to _patrol_ if you want to, or even fire me. But I'm staying in Santa Barbara. With Carlton."

Chief Vick sighed. "O'Hara, I said I'd get to you in a minute and I will. Right now I'm not finished with Lassiter. Carlton…I said that I _considered_ you highly expendable. Then. Perhaps it has escaped your attention, but in the years since the start of my tenure as Chief you have _remained _head detective despite the fact that I am perfectly within my rights to promote someone over you. That is because in spite of the rather rocky start to our professional relationship, I have come to see you as my most valuable asset on the force. You are…_temperamental, _to say the least, but you are undoubtedly the best man for the position you hold. I don't even want to _think_ about having to adjust to someone else in the role of senior officer. Whoever I got to replace you might not be so…fractious…but they would also not be so efficient, competent, or…" she allowed herself a small smile _"…motivational _to the younger officers."

Juliet coughed pointedly. The type of motivation that Chief Vick was talking about was the "move your ass or I'll put my foot in it" variety.

Chief Vick continued. "I also shudder to think how much license a less…"Lassiterian" head might allow…some of our outside consultants. I know it's a part of your job in recent years that you have good cause to resent, but you do act as an effective buffer to the chaos Spencer brings to any investigation he's a part of. I hate to make a pop culture reference, particularly with regard to our involvement with Psych, but I see you very much as my 'island of reality in an ocean of diarrhea.'"

Lassiter's eyes grew wide and round. "I…don't get the reference, Chief, but…thank you."

She waved a hand dismissively. "It's a tagline from a song by Jason Mraz," she said. She turned her attention to her junior detective. "O'Hara, I seem to recall making the implication, some time ago, that it was your duty as Lassiter's partner to…_help him out _on certain personal issues that impeded his ability to function efficiently as an officer of the law. This is _not _how I meant you should help."

Juliet spread her hands in a shrug. "I also recall that the implication carried a pretty clear message of, 'If you want something done right then do it yourself.' So I did."

Chief Vick made a clear decision to overlook the slight insolence in the statement. "How long have the two of you been involved?"

"Since yesterday."

"Yesterday. Not since three months ago, when he pulled you off the top of that clock tower?"

Juliet sat up a little straighter. "That may have been when I made my decision to _pursue _a relationship, but no, we've only been together since yesterday."

"And you're absolutely certain that this decision has nothing to do with PTSD?"

"Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? Why would you think I would fall in love with Carlton because of _that?"_

"Because he was _there _for you, O'Hara. Because he saved your life. Because you needed something to steady yourself."

Carlton's heart sank to the soles of his shoes. He hadn't even stopped to consider the possibility that O'Hara's interest in him _now_ could be the direct result of the trauma she'd suffered at Yin's hands months ago. But Juliet shook her head firmly.

"Carlton is _always_ there for me, Chief. And I've always been attracted to him, I've always wanted there to be something between us other than a strictly professional relationship. What happened at the tower just made me see that I couldn't afford to wait. Now, if you want to split us up then you're within your rights to do that, Chief, but I'm telling you now that _you can't split us up_. And there's no reason to end the partnership. We're both perfectly capable of maintaining our professionalism even in the face of our personal relationship."

"O'Hara, if _he_ was anyone else, and if _you_ were anyone else, I would say that was patent-leather bullshit. As it is, I'm placing you both on probation. _Prove_ to me that you can handle yourselves without your personal relationship becoming a hindrance, and I'll consider leaving this partnership intact. I wasn't hedging the truth when I told Reyes that you are my best team, and I don't want to lose that."

A lot of the tension went out of Juliet's shoulders. "Thank you, Chief," she said.

Vick pushed a file folder across the desk at them. "It seems to me that this case of Reyes' might be a good showcase of your ability to remain professional. Why don't you take him up on it? You get through this case with a good report and I'll consider removing the probation from your records. Come through with a good report and a _clearance _and I'll do more than consider it."

Lassiter picked up the file. "We won't let you down, Chief. Thank you."


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twelve: If You're Going to San Francisco…<strong>

"Are you sure you're going to be all right with this?" Lassiter asked for approximately the ninety-third time as he drove them in his old red Chevy toward San Francisco.

Juliet sighed. "What happened to 'more grit than a platoon of seasoned marines,' Carlton?"

"Being _able_ to handle another…case of this nature doesn't mean that you _have_ to. It's not too late to turn back."

"I'm a cop, Carlton. Of _course_ I have to_. _Now stop worrying."

He fell silent for a few miles, but finally shook his head in irritation. "I _know_ Vick knew all about this case. She's setting us up to fail."

Juliet disagreed. "She may have known about the case, I'm not going to argue that," she said, "but I kind of think that she knew this would be the perfect way for us to prove we could balance our professional and private lives. _Relax, _Carlton. We can handle this."

He shook his head again, then shot her an apologetic sidelong glance. "Are you sure I'm worth it?" he said.

"Indubitably, Detective."

He sighed. "I hope you're right about that."

She turned slightly in the passenger seat and rubbed his arm. "Carlton. Everything is going to be all right. _This_ time _Romeo and Juliet _ends happily ever after."

She could tell he was back in tortured mode. "But how can you be sure?" he said helplessly. "I mean, God, I haven't even taken you out on a proper _date_ yet."

"We'll get to that. Now stop worrying." She reached for the radio button. Vic Damone whined out of the speakers. She gave Lassiter an eloquent look and he burst out laughing.

"I hope that's not a game-changer," he said. "I'm a good bowler, if that mitigates anything."

He switched the CD player to radio. "Find something you like," he said. "I'm flexible on music. Just no rap. And I'm slightly twang intolerant, so I'd prefer no Country."

She leaned forward and hit the Scan button, and eventually settled on a station playing light rock. After a brief station break they came back with a classic, "You Got It" - the original cut from the late Roy Orbison. Juliet squealed. "I _love_ this song!"

He stole regular glances away from the road at her while she "danced" in her seat and sang along. A half smile curled the corner of his mouth. She was completely oblivious to his attention. He'd never liked traveling with people who danced and sang in the car, whether the drive was long or short. He discovered he didn't mind_ this _at all.

A few songs and a few miles later he was still thinking about the way she just abandoned herself to the music. "Can we stop for something to eat next time we see a restaurant?" she asked when the commercials came back on. "I'm getting kind of hungry."

"Anything you want, anything you need, anything at all…you got it, baby."


	13. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fourteen (no, I'm really NOT superstitious, honest): The Country Club Killer<strong>

"Detective Lassiter, Detective O'Hara, so glad you made it." Chief Reyes shook hands with both of them and gestured them into his office. "We're almost done setting up your cover, we mostly just need a few signatures and some mug shots. Have a seat and I'll explain what I'm thinking, we'll see if your thoughts agree with mine."

He sat down at his desk and waited for them to settle themselves in the two leather-backed armchairs in front of it. He folded his hands on the blotter and leaned forward. "You read the case file I left with Chief Vick, I assume?"

Lassiter nodded. "Twelve dead in two years. That's one active psychopath."

Reyes nodded solemnly. "Particularly for an UnSub. We don't even have a partial fingerprint to go on. Guy is smart, and that's scary."

"Have the profilers come up with anything about him?" Juliet asked. "The file seemed a little light on ideas."

Reyes spread his hands. "He kills newlywed couples and leaves no good evidence. Apart from the standard serial killer profile and a vague sense that our guy has something specific against the institution of marriage, we really don't have anything. That's why I'm hoping this undercover operation will pull something out of the woodwork. I won't lie to you, though - it's one hell of a long shot, no matter how damn good you two are."

"Worse comes to worst we can always call in the psychic we work with," Lassiter said in tones of weary resignation. Juliet stared at him.

"You'd actually volunteer to call Shawn in on this case?" she asked.

"I would _love_ to actually work one high-profile case without him, O'Hara, but it's more important to catch this bastard than to bolster my ego."

"I've heard about your 'consultant,'" Reyes said, "and while I'm impressed with his record I'm not particularly impressed with…_him_. I'd prefer not to have him come flailing into my city if we can help it. I want to keep this operation on the down-low if at all possible, and that doesn't seem to be his forte. No offense intended, of course - I know he's someone you work with frequently."

"Not by choice, most of the time," Lassiter said. "I'm more than happy to be five hundred miles away from him, to be perfectly frank with you, Sir, but he does get results…eventually. It's an option I think you should leave on the table for later consideration, though of course the decision is yours."

"But _we_ intend to catch this guy ourselves, of course, and we will," Juliet added firmly, which made Lassiter smile a little.

"What she said."

Reyes smiled. "Good. I'll keep your psychic consultant in mind just in case, but I'm putting most of my faith in that bulldog reputation you've got, Detective Lassiter, and your guts, O'Hara. Now, a little about this op I'm setting up. You're going to play newlyweds, which I hope you know means I'm using you as bait."

"We surmised as much when we read the report," Lassiter said. "I'm a little concerned, not about the idea of being in this psycho's sights, but about the fact that we don't quite match up with previous victims. They were all quite young, while I'm…not."

"I'm confident that you're young enough, Detective, and I'm also theorizing that the age of the victims is incidental. The important points are that they were all newlyweds, and all lived in the same sort of upper middle-class gated community we're going to set you up in."

"The Country Club set," Lassiter said. Reyes nodded. Lassiter's face twisted into a grimace Juliet couldn't quite figure out.

"Allergic to Yuppies?" she asked.

"More like _married_ to Yuppies, once upon a time," he said. "It's a lifestyle I don't particularly miss, even though I'm still paying it off."

"Well, you'll only have to pretend this time around," Reyes said with the quirk of a smile. "I've given you names that should feel natural enough - Carl and Julia O'Hara. The name of Carlton Lassiter is just a little too infamous in California, and if _I_ were a serial killer I'd have definitely perked my ears to it by now."

"If this guy is so smart and I'm so threatening, how can we know he doesn't know what I look like?" Lassiter asked.

"The short answer is that we _can't," _Reyes said honestly. "The best we can do is hope. And maybe you could stop shaving," he added with a smile.

Lassiter rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I should have thought of that before," he said ruefully. "I've got a moustache guy in Santa Barbara…"

"Just. Grow a beard," Juliet said preemptively. Lassiter's fake facial hair worked well enough for Civil War reenactments but not for an extended undercover. "A couple of days' stubble would make you look like an entirely different person."

"I think you're overestimating how fast my beard grows in," Lassiter said, "not to mention how concealing it is, but gotcha."

"We're going to give you a couple of weeks to get your stories straight and a little background set up," Reyes said, "which should be enough time to get a decent start on a little face fungus - you're a dark-haired man."

Lassiter grimaced again. "Not as dark as I used to be, particularly in the beard."

Reyes chuckled. "Well, if it needs to be a little darker to look a little thicker, we can get some of that Just for Men stuff."


	14. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen: Setting the Stage<strong>

When Carlton first met Head Detective Alonzo Semprini Juliet could feel his hackles rise, and she knew exactly why. If Chief Vick had called in another department's Head to work a case Lassiter would have been incensed, and he expected animosity. Juliet was a bit worried about the possibility herself, but Semprini surprised them both.

"Detective Lassiter, an honor to meet you," the man said. He was a short, stocky bulldog of a man with a gray moustache and graying blond hair. He offered his hand and Lassiter shook it, clearly somewhat at a loss for the man's reaction. "I've followed your career very closely since I first heard about you way back when. You've got quite the reputation, Sir, and no mistake."

Again Lassiter wondered just what reputation exactly these San Franciscan police were referring to. "Nice to meet you," he said, a trifle lamely.

"And Detective O'Hara, a pleasure," Semprini added as he turned to Juliet. "As young as you are, you've made quite a name for yourself already. We're all watching your career with great expectations."

"I owe it all to my partner's on-the-job training," Juliet said. "He's a lot tougher on me than any of my instructors at the Academy."

Lassiter looked at her with wide eyes. "I am?"

"In a good way, Carlton, in a good way."

"I don't doubt it a bit," Semprini said. "Come on, I'll introduce you to the other investigators working this case and we'll get you started building your cover."

The other investigators turned out to be Detective Daniel Forth, Semprini's partner, and a Federal investigator named Adrianna Meeks. Forth was a tall, skinny man with a thin, pale, pointed face and piercing grey eyes who actually reminded Juliet more than a little of Carlton, except for being rather narrower both in face and frame. He looked grumpy but Juliet found herself liking him all the same. Meeks was about Juliet's height, with long, perfectly styled auburn hair, bright green eyes, and a narrow pale line on the ring finger of her left hand that indicated a relatively recent divorce. Juliet took an instant dislike to her even though she could not, at first, say why.

Forth grunted a noncommittal response to his introduction and remained standing in the middle of the conference room with his arms crossed over his narrow chest, but Meeks stepped forward and offered Lassiter her hand.

"Detective Lassiter, so nice to finally meet you," she purred in a silken voice, and Juliet felt her own hackles rise. "The Legend Himself. My, but you just have the _bluest_ eyes. Absolutely beautiful."

Lassiter tugged nervously at the collar of his shirt. "Er…nice to meet you, Agent Meeks."

"Please, call me Adrianna. And may I call you Carlton?"

"I'd…rather you didn't," Lassiter said. Juliet almost cheered.

The redhead was unperturbed and not at all put off. "All business, I see." She smiled. "I like that in a man." Juliet felt her hands knot into fists at her sides.

"If we could get _back_ to business, then?" Detective Forth said pointedly. He had a strong but clear British accent and his tone carried a bite similar to Lassiter's at his barkiest. "We've got a killer to catch, lest you've forgotten, Ma'am."

"Oh Danny, you're such a grump," Meeks said laughingly. "We're going to be working closely with Detective Lassiter for some time, you know - we might as well take the opportunity to get to know each other a little, first."

"Yes, Agent Meeks, I know you're quite interested in getting to know our _consultants," _Forth said, stressing the plural. Juliet would have offered him a fist bump if she thought he was likely to return it. "But if you could tone it back from predatory to professional, that would be most beneficial, I think. And _don't_ call me Danny."

Head Detective Semprini stepped in between his partner and the Federal agent. "I've got dossier files set up for both of you, I think it would be good to go over them once together to make sure there are no conflicts in our stories and that we've covered all our bases."

He handed over two manila folders. Juliet opened hers and began to read about "Julia O'Hara," a former paralegal for a small law firm who had just moved to San Francisco with her newlywed husband, Carl, from Santa Monica.

"What did they make you?" she whispered to Lassiter.

"Adjunct professor of history at USF," he whispered back.

"I hope that works out for you," Forth said. "Your Chief said you were something of a buff, so we took a chance that you'd have enough basic knowledge to fool the uninitiated."

"Provided I don't meet any _actual _history professors who want to talk shop, I think I should be okay," Lassiter said. "I could definitely hold my own on military history, at least."

"Is Julia looking for a job or is she planning on staying home?" Juliet asked. Semprini and Forth exchanged nervous glances.

"That was my idea, Detective," Agent Meeks said smoothly. "You see, our previous victims were all taken in the following manner - the killer entered the premises while one partner was home alone and subdued the first victim, then lay in wait for the other to return. Keeping you in the home both gives you ample opportunity to scope possible suspects amongst your new neighbors and makes it all the more likely that you'll draw our UnSub's attention."

"So basically we're using my partner as bait," Lassiter said. The growl in his voice was evident.

"Of course if you don't think she can handle it, Detective, I'd be more than happy to play the role myself," Meeks said, and batted her cosmetically enhanced eyelashes.

"_I can handle it," _Juliet said.

They spent another hour or so hammering out various details and then broke up to start preparations for the operation. Juliet waylaid the Federal agent outside the bullpen door.

"Back. Off. He's _mine," _she said, and stalked after Lassiter like a hunting cat.


	15. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Sixteen: The Newlywed Game<strong>

"Are you ready for this?" Lassiter asked. He held her hand as they sat behind the wheel of the confiscated BMW provided by the SFPD.

Juliet took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm ready."

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. "Let's roll, Mrs. O'Hara."

"I'm right behind you, _Mr_. O'Hara."

Two and a half weeks of preparation had transformed both of them. Lassiter's beard came in better than he'd anticipated, and with just a touch of dye looked more than passably well-grown. It made him look rather professorly, actually, and sophisticated. Juliet liked the look even though it made the few kisses she'd managed to steal from him rather prickly situations. He wore a charcoal gray turtleneck and a nice pair of charcoal-colored slacks, the legs cut roomy enough to conceal the ankle holster he insisted upon. Juliet had dyed her hair a rich chestnut, which he seemed to approve of, and the style of it and her own wardrobe made her look slightly younger, perkier, and more idealistic than her usual professional style. It made them a slightly odd couple, but it was an oddness she thought would play well among the country club set they were entering. She would probably look like the former student whose quest for the easy A had led to something bigger…which, she supposed, wasn't too far from the truth, even though she doubted that her sex appeal would have had much effect on his method of training her if she'd actually thought to use it that way. She kind of wished she had, though. Maybe the by now the diamond on her finger would have been a _real _wedding ring instead of a prop.

He drove through the gates and down the well-ordered streets to the neat white house that was meant to be "theirs." He parked the silver Beemer in the little drive and hopped out, and came around to her side of the car to open her door for her. It was not a put-on touch to add verisimilitude to their "newlywed" status - he'd been opening doors for her ever since that fateful night he landed drunk on her doorstep, a sweet bit of old-fashioned courtliness she liked. He handed her out and she wrapped her arms around his neck in a tight hug. _That_ part was calculated, not that she wouldn't have wanted to do it even if there wasn't a lady in a floppy sunhat pruning rose bushes next door, watching them with the avid interest of the nosy neighbor.

Lassiter kissed her, and O'Hara allowed herself to enjoy it despite the audience. Kisses had become rather thin on the ground - he _wanted_ to kiss and hug and touch and make love to her, she could tell that, but he was dedicated to being the very model of professionalism, which left her slightly frustrated with him. She understood _why_ he'd felt the need to back off - serious investigation, the Chief's gaze upon them from a distance looking for reasons to pull them apart - but it made her want to smack him upside the head and shove her tongue down his throat.

"Oh, aren't you just a _darling _couple?" The rose-lady trotted over as they broke apart. "Hi, hello - I'm Carrie Paige-Hamilton. You must be the new neighbors! So nice to meet you."

Lassiter smiled and took a half step back, allowing Juliet to step forward and make the introductions - something they'd discussed during their preparations. Julia O'Hara was a talker - Carl O'Hara was the silent type. It worked out best to their natural dispositions and helped to avoid the distinct possibility that Lassiter's impatience with socialization and his quick temper would become an issue.

"Hello! Yes, we're the O'Haras. I'm Julia, this is _my husband _Carl," Juliet said. She fluttered her eyelashes and smiled at Lassiter when she emphasized the words "my husband," an exclamation point that ought to shout "NEWLYWED" in all-caps. "We just moved here from Santa Monica."

"So nice to meet you both. Tell me, what brings you here to the City by the Bay?"

"Carl is going to be a professor at the University of San Francisco," Juliet said. "I was so upset when he told me - we'd been dating for a couple of years, you see, and I couldn't bear the thought of him moving away. That was when he asked me to marry him," she finished with a convincingly genuine blush and a smile.

Carrie Paige-Hamilton fairly bounced with enthusiasm and clapped her hands together. "I thought I smelled that New Ring scent," she gushed. "Congratulations to you both. Well, I'm sure you have a lot of unpacking to do and want to get settled in, so I'll leave you alone. I just wanted to say welcome to the neighborhood. I'm sure you'll be too tired to cook tonight so if you'd like I'd be more than happy to drop off a casserole for you this evening."

"Oh, thank you so much," Juliet said. "We really wouldn't want to put you out like that, though - we were planning on dining out tonight."

"It wouldn't be any trouble at all," the woman said. "I'll bring it by and if you want to eat out tonight then you can have it tomorrow."

"Well then thank you, that would be wonderful."

Carrie Paige-Hamilton waved and retreated to her yard and rose bushes, but continued to watch them. Lassiter led O'Hara to the front door and opened it, but stopped her when she made to walk through.

"What is it?" she asked in a low voice, thinking he meant to say something cautionary. Instead, he leaned in and hoisted her into his arms. Surprised and pleased, she snuggled against his shoulder as he carried her across the threshold.

Unfortunately, all trace of romance dropped out of his attitude the minute he kicked the door closed and stood her back on her feet. "That woman gives me the creeps," he said darkly.

"_Everybody _gives you the creeps, Carlton," Juliet said.

"Fair enough. But did you see her hands when she took off her gardening gloves? No wedding ring. And a hyphenated name. Divorcees have reason to resent newlyweds, I'd say."

"I suppose that's true, Carlton, but that doesn't exactly narrow down our list of possible suspects much. And it puts _you _on it, too, don't forget."

"No it doesn't," Carlton said seriously. "I wasn't in the area at the time of the murders."

"Do you have an alibi?" Juliet joked.

He nodded. "You've spent at least eight hours a day with me nearly every day for the past four years, and any time you can't vouch for the Chief and half the PD can."

"Carlton, you do realize I'm teasing you, right?"

"We don't have time for jokes, O'Hara."

It was time to set him straight on something. "Carlton, we're probably going to be here for awhile, you know…"

He ran a distracted hand over his hair - still much shorter than Juliet liked it but at least he was finally letting it grow out a bit again. "I know that," he said. "These kinds of cases don't get solved quickly, if at all."

"Which is why, if this is going to work, we _can't _be 'Lassiter and O'Hara,'" she said. "I know you're nervous about this probation we're on. Believe me, I'm nervous, too. And I want to catch this killer just as much as you do. But we're never going to make it for weeks and maybe months if we don't…you know…loosen up a little."

She stepped to him and put her arms around his neck. "We're supposed to be newlyweds," she purred. "We're expected to act like it, you know. Julia is a young woman eager to start her family. That means we should be bonking like bunnies."

"I doubt that's what Chief Reyes and Detective Semprini think we should be doing," Lassiter said, "and Semprini and Forth will be keeping us under surveillance, you know."

She stretched up and kissed him. "They're not surveilling us _that_ closely," she said. "They're just watching to make sure we don't end up on the list of victims."

"And to see if they can identify anyone who starts skulking around our house at night," Lassiter added. His tone was level but it was clear he was crumbling rapidly beneath the weight of her logic and the press of her body. "Although our UnSub's MO makes it more likely they'll show up in the mid-afternoon."

"You know, we're supposed to spend this afternoon indoors, pretending to unpack," she said, with a nod at the neatly squared-away house. Even their wedding album, filled with staged photographs of a happy wedding day that had never happened, was laid out prominently on the coffee table. "There's nothing in particular we can be doing about this case _right now."_

"…Yeah?"

"Yeah." She smiled and ground herself gently against his body. "So I think it's time we broke in that marriage bed upstairs."

He pressed his teeth against her ear. "Damn persuasive woman," he growled softly, and she giggled.

"Come on, Professor O'Hara," she said, "come upstairs and teach me about the Roman Empire."

"Sure. I'll teach you about the reign of Caesar Augustus, who gave us all those pesky morality laws we're breaking and who walled up and starved his own daughter to death for promiscuity."

"I was thinking maybe more along the lines of the bathhouses and the brothels and the orgies of the rich. The _decadence _of Rome, Professor, the _decadence."_

"Oh, that. Yeah, we could do that."


	16. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

**A/N:** A nice dollop of smut in the middle of serious.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventeen: Pillow Talk<strong>

"Um…"

"What? What is it?"

"Did you actually call me 'Caligula' at some point, or was that my perverted imagination?"

Juliet giggled. "I may have done."

"But wouldn't that make you either my sister or my horse?"

"Oh come on, the horse thing was just a snub of the nose at the Senate. He didn't _really_ intend for it to be a legislator, and he wasn't sleeping with it…was he?"

"I don't think anybody really knows for sure, but apparently the sister thing doesn't bother you?"

She sighed. "Historically, it's not exactly uncommon. But no, I wouldn't want to do any role play or anything, thank you very much."

"Good, because that would be severely gross."

"Agreed." She toyed with his chest hair while he caressed her hand. "Do you have any sisters? Brothers? Childhood dogs, cats, or ferrets?"

"You want to hear about that _now?" _he asked.

"Well, you never talk about things like that. I'm curious."

"I told you about my lesbian mother, right? And yet you're still surprised I don't talk about my family a whole lot?"

"I seem to recall that you seemed to hold a fairly high opinion of your lesbian mother's lesbian lover, so yeah, a little."

"I suppose you have a point. I don't know, I guess I just like to keep my family for myself or something."

"If you don't want to talk about it with me, that's fine," Juliet said, and snuggled against him comfortably.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked. "Because I really don't have any reason not to tell you. I mean…you…might be _part_ of that family, one day…if you want to be."

She smiled and kissed his chest just above his left nipple. "I'd really like to know."

He took a deep breath and let it out. "I have one older sister, Charlotte, who lives in New Jersey with her husband, Raul, and my eleven-year old nephew Peter. I have a younger brother, Lincoln, who may or may not be alive and well in South America. And my baby sister Lauren is at college studying to be a filmmaker. I had a dog named Curly - part Saint Bernard, part Newfoundland, part bullmastiff. Enormous freakin' dog. The type you could potentially put a saddle on and ride. He died of old age while I was at the Academy."

"I never really expected you'd have had such a big family," Juliet marveled. "I have to admit, though, I expected you'd be the oldest. You've kind of got that Oldest Child vibe."

"Charlie's only a year older," he said. "It's funny you said that, though, because when I was first dating my ex-wife she said she'd expected me to be the _youngest_ child. I'll take it to imply that I've matured a little since then."

"Question."

"Yes?"

"Was Curly named for the Stooge?"

He chuckled. "Depended on who was asking. I told my grandmother, for example, that he was named for the ill-fortuned Newfoundland in Jack London's _The Call of the Wild."_

"The friendly one that was torn apart by the native dogs when they debarked in Alaska."

"Exactly." He seemed impressed that she knew.

"I never took you for the literary type, either. I thought you didn't really _care_ to read, unless the topic was military history."

He laughed. "I _don't_, thanks to Grandma. She was a former teacher who made me write book reports all damned summer long, and she made me do them over until I got A's on them, too. I probably would have _liked_ reading if her technique had been a little less demanding, but I can't actually fault her for it too much, in retrospect. She was trying to help me, and I guess it worked. I'm still shit with numbers but I _do_ know how to read and write, which is a pretty big accomplishment for a dyslexic, particularly since I didn't get a whole hell of a lot of assistance with it from the nuns at school."

She propped herself on one elbow and gave him an incredulous look. "You're _dyslexic? _And you _still_ got a 97.4 on the DET?"

"Er…yes?"

She smacked his arm. "So why the hell did you get so upset because I got a few measly tenths of a percent higher score than you? Cripes, _I _didn't have that kind of hurdle to jump over."

"I wasn't upset, I was just…competitive. I don't know if you've noticed, but that's one of my major character flaws."

"You were upset. You felt _threatened_. You thought that Buzz and everybody else at the station would think less of you just because I'd beaten your score. You could have just said you were dyslexic - everybody would have been _floored."_

"Yeah, well, dyslexia isn't normally considered a bragging point," he said. "I took plenty of ribbing for it when I was a kid - that and the big ears and asthma."

"You have _asthma_, too?"

"Had. Past-tense. I outgrew that eventually, thank God. Unfortunately, not the ears. Besides, I really didn't care what McNab or anyone else thought…I guess I got a _little_ bit upset because I didn't want _you _to think less of me."

"Silly," she said, with a smile.

"Hey, at the time I was fairly certain you thought I was the biggest idiot on the planet, and repulsive to boot."

"_What? _Why would you think anything of the sort?"

He sighed. "With Spencer always at hand to point out how big a fuck-up I can be, how could I seem other than stupid?"

"Well that's not the impression _I_ ever got," she defended staunchly. "In fact, most of the time Shawn only succeeds in making _himself_ look like a moron, even when he's right. But where did you get the idea I thought you were _repulsive?"_

He sighed again. "We hadn't been partnered very long before you started pointing out to me all the reasons I shouldn't get any ideas. It's like you thought I was going to pounce on you or something."

She blushed. "Oh…yeah…well, I didn't know you, and people were telling me how your last partner got transferred because you had an affair with her, and I just…didn't want to have those kind of issues. I suppose that makes me seem kind of hypocritical now, doesn't it?"

"I wouldn't have thought it should take you so long to realize I was no Don Juan."

She laughed. "Well, if you must know the truth, I was doubly worried about potential 'issues' because from the first time I met you I thought you were the handsomest man I'd ever seen."

It was his turn to blush. "Oh come on, O'Hara. Your nose is growing."

"It's _true," _she laughed. "I thought you combined all the best features of George Clooney and Mr. Bean."

"_Mr. Bean _has good features?"

"He does when you put them on _you."_

He snorted laughter and kissed the tip of her nose. "You're out of your mind," he said. "That's probably a good thing, for me at least."

She climbed up and straddled him. Her eyes shining, she leaned in and kissed him deeply. He moaned softly into her mouth and his hands reached up to cup her breasts. She arched back sharply and pressed herself against the pads of his thumbs as they traced lazy circles around her areolae.

"You could drive me out of my mind right now, if you want to," she said breathlessly. "You're very good at it."

His eyes were at their bluest, and sparkled with amusement. "How do I do that, my lady?"

"Just keep doing what you're doing." He gave one of her nipples a gentle tweak and she gasped out his name. She scooted up his body and his hands slipped around her waist as she leaned in. Her soft breasts brushed his face. She wriggled, her breasts bounced teasingly, and he caught her nipple in his mouth. He sucked briefly, rolled the tight nubbin of flesh with his tongue, and released her. He could feel the shudder that wracked through her entire body. She mewled like a hungry kitten and buried her hands and face in his hair.

He buried his own face in her heaving bosom. "I love you," he whispered. "Don't ever leave me."


	17. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen: Go Forth and Conquer<strong>

They had "guests" on the third day. Detective Daniel Forth, dapper and tweedy and somehow ineffably British, arm-in-arm with the redheaded minx, Agent Adrianna Meeks. Even though they were expected, Juliet felt her usually equable temper flare at sight of the Federal investigator. She'd backed off on the heavy-duty flirtation with Lassiter - barely - but her eyes still followed him with avid interest.

Forth held out a bouquet of brightly colored flowers. "Housewarming present, Missus O'Hara," he said with a wink.

Juliet took the flowers and breathed them in appreciatively. "They're beautiful, Dan. Come in, welcome."

They stepped inside. "So then, how are we getting on? Fitting in? No problems with any of the…neighbors?"

Juliet rolled her eyes. "I foresee tennis elbow in my future, but otherwise, no, no problems. Of course, it's difficult to get out and make proper connections when you've picked up a leech."

"You're referring to Ms. Carrie Paige-Hamilton, I expect?" he said knowledgably. "Woman is something of a gad-about, and it seems she's chosen _you_ to be her new best friend."

"Yeah. She knows absolutely everybody, so at first I thought it might actually be _helpful. _Silly me."

"How is the Professor?" Meeks asked, with more than professional interest in her voice.

"He's fine. He's in the study, grading papers. He's found a few things you might be interested in."

"I can't wait to hear about them," Forth said. "Lead on, Ma'am."

She led them into the "study," a windowless interior room on the ground floor where they could safely drop cover without risk of exposure. Lassiter was already there, pouring over a stack of papers on the desk, looking very much like the professor he was pretending to be - except that the papers were coroner's reports and crime scene files, not student essays. Forth flopped into one of the wingback chairs, obviously grateful to drop the act of being Agent Meeks' doting husband. The grumpy expression Juliet remembered so well replaced the look of affable good humor he'd worn at the door.

"What've you got, Lassiter?" he asked, and the bite was back in his tone. Neither Santa Barbara detective took offence - it was just his way, as much as it was Lassiter's, and they were both perfectly comfortable with his hard-bitten professionalism. Much more so than with Meeks' endless wanton fascination with Lassiter and his "beautiful eyes," which she rarely failed to make mention of.

"Questions, mostly," Lassiter said irritably. "It makes no sense whatsoever to me that our UnSub can actually manage to leave _zero evidence _at six individual crime scenes."

"Tell me about it," Forth said in his grumpy way. "The Feds are starting to look at us like our bloody crime lab is incompetent."

Meeks coughed. Forth grimaced in her general direction. Juliet cleared her throat to cover the laugh that wanted to escape her. Lassiter took no notice of any of it.

"We're overlooking something, I know we are," he said. "The evidence is _there_, we just haven't found it because…it doesn't look like evidence."

Meeks laughed lightly. Juliet probably would have reached over and smacked her if Forth didn't jump in first.

"You're saying that you think the murders were committed by someone whose fingerprints and hair samples we'd expect to find there." He leaned forward, grey eyes glittering with interest. "I'd been wondering that myself."

Lassiter nodded. "I'm seeing that there were lots of unidentified fingerprints in each of the houses, which of course we'd expect - social people, lots of friends, lots of visitors, all ostensibly without criminal records. I'd damn sure like to have someone take a close hard look at those prints, see if there are any that are present at every scene."

"That seems a fairly heavy investment of resources for a hunch, Detective," Meeks said.

"In what way?" Lassiter said, relatively mildly for him. "We used to have to check each print with a magnifying glass and our own faulty eyes. Now we have computer programs to enlarge the image and match points for us in a matter of seconds. _Twelve dead _seems worth pretty much any investment to me."

"I quite agree," Forth said. "I'll run your idea by Lonzo when I talk to him tonight. He'll have the Crime Lab boys take a second look at those unidentified prints."

"Tell them to see if they can identify _two_ sets of prints in common," Lassiter said. Juliet looked at him in surprise.

"_Two?" _she said.

He nodded thoughtfully, still staring at the evidence files. "I don't think we're looking at a single killer."

"How long have you suspected _that?"_

"The idea has been chasing itself around my head since we got here."

"And you didn't think to tell _me_ about it?"

He scratched at his itchy beard. "It wasn't a very solid idea, O'Hara," he said, a trifle sheepishly. "I didn't know I was going to say anything about it _now_ until it was already out."

"It seems a little unlikely, doesn't it?" Meeks said. _"One _killer in the middle of a gated community might pass unnoticed, but _two?"_

"If they live in these communities and are well-known among the residents - all of which I think are virtually a given - then no, I don't think that's at all unlikely," Lassiter said. "Particularly if they're smart."

"I still think - " Meeks began, but Forth cut her off.

"_I _think Detective Lassiter is on to something," he said. "Most of our victims were quite fit, and a couple of the men were virtual gorillas. Subduing them would've been no mean feat, even if you took them by surprise. It doesn't seem at all out of the realm of possibility to me to think there was more than one perp."

Juliet gave the SFPD detective a bright smile. She was still slightly hurt that Lassiter hadn't confided his theory in her first, but she was glad Forth saw it worthwhile to defend from the skeptical Federal agent.

"You do realize, of course, that even if they _do_ find prints in common, it doesn't stand as proof?" Meeks said. "All of our victims ran in the same social circles. Probably the only surprising thing would be _not_ to find prints in common."

"Great. Then we'll have lots of suspects. Which is more than we've got _now,_ which is absolutely nothing,"Juliet said through gritted teeth.

Meeks gave her a look, then turned her attention, and a smile, upon Lassiter. "You look so tired, Detective. Don't you think maybe you're pushing yourself a little too hard? No one expects you to solve the case this quickly, you know."

Lassiter _did_ look tired. He had that hungry, sleepless look Juliet knew well from similar cases, although now she was in a better position to fully understand it - he _hadn't _slept, and had barely eaten, since they started their undercover. She'd tried her damnedest to help him relax, but except for a couple of deliciously sweet interludes together in bed he remained tightly wound. She'd never been with him on an extended undercover operation before, and she couldn't help wondering if he'd make it through all right. Even only three days in his eyes were darkly shadowed and his skin was too pale. Maybe it hadn't been either his local notoriety _or_ his relative inability to blend into a crowd that kept Vick from assigning him such cases.

"I'm fine," Lassiter said.

"Honestly, Detective O'Hara, you should take better care of your…partner," Meeks admonished. "You don't know how easily someone could swoop in and steal him away from you."

"I doubt she has much to worry about from anybody in _this _room," Forth said, with an eloquent roll of his ice-gray peepers. "And I think she's probably doing the best job anyone could do, under the circumstances. Lonzo hasn't exactly been getting a lot of sleep, either, since this case started. Neither have I, for that matter."

He shifted in his seat a bit uncomfortably, and Juliet realized he did look a little weary. "Is there anything else you'd like us to check on for you, Detective?" he asked.

"I'd…like you to run a background check on someone for me, if you would," Lassiter said, with an apologetic glance at Juliet. She closed her eyes and sighed. _Oh dear, Carlton, no…_

Forth pulled a notebook and pen from the inner pocket of his tweet jacket and prepared to jot down the information. "What's the name?"

"Carrie Paige-Hamilton."

"Detective Lassiter, honestly," Meeks began, laughingly, but once again dear irascible Forth came to the rescue with brisk efficiency.

"Carrie Paige-Hamilton, got it," he said, and capped his pen. "A woman so utterly annoying I actually kind of hope you've got something on her."

"Nothing but the fact that she's as phony as a three-dollar bill," Lassiter admitted, "which unfortunately can be said about virtually everyone in this neighborhood. But I don't think we can afford to discount any possible lead just because it's based on something as shifty and unreliable as instinct."

"Gotcha. Well, anyway, something to hope for I guess."

He stood up as he stuffed the notebook and pen back in his jacket. "If you and Detective O'Hara have no other concerns to discuss then I think we'll leave you," he said. "Lonzo's waiting for my report and Reyes is waiting for his, and we got word from Santa Barbara today that_ your _chief would like you to call and give her a report, although from the sounds of things she's more concerned for the moment with a hairball in her shoe than with the actual case…?"

Juliet blushed. "Mipsy," she said simply. Chief Vick had kindly consented to look after her dog and two cats while she was in San Francisco, but Mipsy the gray tabby tended to digestive upsets as well as hairballs, and he was also a crack shot for placing his kitty-pukes in the best possible place to be noticed in the worst possible way.

"Is that the one that kept sticking its tail up my nose?" Lassiter blurted, then blushed.

"No, that was Fluffernutter, the orange tabby," Juliet said, perfectly casually. "She likes people a lot more than Mipsy does, particularly men."

"It's the badge. Pussy magnet," Forth said blandly, and Juliet snorted. Even Lassiter cracked a faint smile as good as a grin. Only Meeks seemed unamused. "Well, just remember to give your report and your Moggy-apologies to your Chief and I'm sure all will be well."

"I'll see you out," Juliet said. _With great pleasure, _in the case of one of the pair, but less enthusiastically in the case of the other. Maybe when this case was finally over then she and Carlton and Forth could go out for drinks before going home. _Without _Meeks.

Carlton dove back into the files, the place he spent most of his time, and Juliet walked the two local investigators to the door alone. She sent Meeks on her way with a smile of freezing politeness but gave Forth a much more genuine - and inherently grateful - smile as he followed the Federal woman out. "Thanks again, Dan, for the flowers," she said.

He tipped her a conspiratorial wink. "Glad you like 'em, Missus. Keep 'em watered, why don't you? They did look just a little tired to me."


	18. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

**A/N:** Got SERIOUSLY stuck after last chapter, but now I think I know how I'm going to get to where I'm going with this

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen: Within the Bubble<strong>

Every morning Lassiter kissed O'Hara goodbye on the front step, climbed behind the wheel of the confiscated BMW, and drove to "work," which was actually a parking garage where an unmarked police vehicle (different every day) would drive him back to the operation headquarters to help monitor the security cameras hidden so that they have unobstructed view of every possible entrance to the little white house. The only time he was nervous were those times when O'Hara left the house to socialize with the neighbors - they had cameras in many of the community's public areas, including the tennis courts, but even when he could see her he was fearful every time she stepped outside the relative security of the home.

She wasn't defenseless. He _knew_ that. He knew she had considerable hand-to-hand training and he'd made certain she was carrying a gun in her purse. She could take care of herself. But he didn't like the idea that she might have to.

Her strength and determination weren't at issue - she simply didn't _need_ more trauma like she'd experienced in the Yin case, whether she could take it or not. He knew he was holding her to something of a double-standard - he wouldn't be so worried about any other officer, but dammit, she _wasn't_ any other officer, she was the woman he _loved._

He could never tell her that. Not that he loved her, he told her that as often as he could, but that he worried more than he ought to about her because of it. This, he thought, was _exactly_ the reason why partners weren't meant to be involved romantically. Maintaining objectivity was impossible, at least for _him_.

Late every afternoon, a plainclothes officer would drive him back to the parking garage, where he would climb back behind the wheel of the silver BMW and drive "home" again, where Juliet would invariably meet him at the door with a smile and another kiss. It was slightly strange, perhaps, but it was only during this portion of the day that life began to feel surreal. Talking together about their day over dinner, perhaps a night out with "friends," or best of all, a glass of red wine as they cuddled together on the sofa in front of the fireplace - daily highlights he looked forward to, as real as anything he'd ever experienced until he realized that it was all predicated on a basic lie. This was _not _his life, Juliet was _not_ his wife, and eventually the bubble would burst and he'd go home to an empty condo and frozen lasagna sawed in half and "cooked" indifferently in the microwave. Perhaps _eventually_ they would have this sort of life together for real, but eventually could be a very long time in coming.

Sometimes, often in fact, eventually never comes at all.

"We've been invited to play doubles with Carrie and her tennis instructor tomorrow," Juliet said on their second Friday night over stir fry and rice wine.

"I hope you said we had other plans," he said blandly.

"_Carl," _she warned gently, "we're supposed to be _that kind of people."_

"No," he said with a grin, _"you're _supposed to be _that kind of people_. I'm supposed to be the stick-in-the-mud academic who smiles and nods and tries to disappear into the molding when social engagements are mentioned."

She laughed. "Touché. But I still think we should do it."

"Why?" he asked. "Records check came back clean. Didn't you tell me yourself that you think I'm out of my mind for suspecting anyone as blithely stupid and sociable as Ms. Carrie Paige-Hamilton? If she's off the suspect list then there's no particular reason to play tennis with her. And I _hate_ tennis."

"_Carrie _is off my suspect list," Juliet said, "but I'd like to get your take on the tennis pro. He's an…interesting person, I think."

"Really?" Lassiter said. "Interesting person or person of interest?"

"Maybe both."

"Hmm. Okay, I'm in. On one condition."

"What's that?"

He took a sip of sake and regarded her coolly over the rim of the glass. "That it's just you and me tonight."

She smiled and held out her wine glass for a toast. "I'll drink to that."


	19. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty: Mixed Doubles<strong>

"That's it, put some hustle in it."

"I'm sorry, I don't 'hustle,'" Lassiter said, allowing yet another ball to whiz past him unanswered. If one came close enough to where he was standing he'd reach out and swat it back over the net, but any return requiring more effort than that was more than he was willing to put into this nonsense. Juliet sighed and shook her head, partly annoyed with him and partly amused. But more than anything else she was confused. Lassiter's aggressively competitive nature had to mean he was practically frothing to trounce the other pair, but he showed no sign of it. Juliet didn't know what he was trying to prove or accomplish by half-assing it - either some sort of attempt to disarm a potential suspect…or was this a passive-aggressive protest against her forcing him out here?

"Come on, Carl - show your little lady a hero," Tennis pro Landry Hawkes said.

"She's not a damsel in distress, so she doesn't particularly need to see one," Lassiter said in his blandest tone. "I doubt my ability to return a backhand will slay any dragons, anyway."

Juliet considered him for a moment, and finally she thought she had a handle on the problem - the _shorts. _Of course. He _did _look faintly ridiculous in white tennis shorts and a blue polo - the blue polo was kind of nice, but the shorts were so very _not_ Lassiter that they hadn't a chance in hell of looking good _or_ comfortable, and he looked absolutely miserable.

She'd make it up to him when they got home. A long hot bath and a shoulder massage, for starters.

Thinking about where a simple shoulder rub could lead left her daydreaming and she missed an easy serve. "Julie, you there?" Carrie asked. "Looks like we lost you there for a minute."

"You guys really don't have your heads in the game," Landry said. He was a tall, lanky man with long, curly black hair and unusually large black eyes, and he looked like nothing so much as a manic stick figure. Juliet found him creepy as hell with the best Lassiter-ish paranoia possible but she suspected that anyone who looked so much like a serial killer probably wasn't one. Maybe there hadn't been much point in putting Carlton through the tennis shorts-torture after all.

"I know why," Carrie singsonged. "They're _newlyweds_, Landry - they want to be _alone."_

"Really?" Landry said, with what appeared to be great and genuine interest. "You didn't tell me that, Ms. Paige-Hamilton. Congratulations, you two. How long has it been?"

Juliet moved close to Lassiter's side and put her arm around his waist. "Two and a half months," she said shyly. "We honeymooned in Cancun." Lassiter smiled and put his own arm around Juliet.

"Nice. How'd you two get together in the first place?"

"We first met about four years ago," Juliet said. "We've been together ever since."

The flood of pleasantries was cut short by the ringing of the cell phone in Lassiter's pocket. The prepaid cell phone the number of which was known only to a select few at the SFPD. He and Juliet exchanged a brief look and he walked away from the group slightly while she engaged the two in bright conversation. "Carl O'Hara," he greeted, to caution the officer on the other end that discretion was necessary.

"Hallo, Carl," Forth's voice filtered through the tinny speaker of the cheap mobile. "Are you and the missus available? The old ball an' chain an' I've got something to show you."

"Would we have time to get cleaned up a bit?" Lassiter asked. "We've been playing doubles with some…'interesting people.'" _Translation: Do I have time to put on some freakin' pants?_

"It…would be better, I'm afraid, to get here as quickly and as _quietly_ as possible," Forth said delicately.

Crap on a cracker.

"All right, Dan - we'll be right there. Address?"

The detective rattled off an address that Lassiter recognized immediately as being part of a nearby community very similar to the one he was in. Even though the local detective couldn't risk saying anything concrete over the phone, Lassiter knew what that address meant: there'd been another murder.

Crap on a _Krispy Kreme_.

"Julia, sweetheart," he called out, "that was Dan. He's got some work to talk over with me, I've really got to get going. Do you want to stay here, or…?"

He used his eyes to communicate the truth to his partner, and she picked right up on it. "I'll tag along, if that's okay, sweetie. I always like to see Dan and Addie, even if you are just going to be talking about dusty old books."

She turned to their tennis partners. "I'm sorry to cut and run, you two. Duty calls, and Carl must answer, and I like to spend my evenings with him, you know."

"We understand. Go on, you crazy lovebirds. We'll take a rain check for later," Carrie said, with an indulgent smile.

Lassiter and Juliet waved goodbye and hopped into the BMW. Once the doors were safely closed and their belts were buckled, Juliet dropped the façade.

"What's _really_ up?" she asked.

"Forth couldn't say over the phone," Lassiter said grimly, "but I smell blood in the water."

"Son of a bitch."

Lassiter nodded. "Tell me," he said as they pulled out of the gates onto the main road past the exclusive neighborhood, "have you noticed anything kind of funny about Paige-Hamilton and that Hawkes fellow?"

"I've noticed plenty funny about Hawkes, but no, not particularly, why?"

"He was wearing a tennis bracelet."

She laughed. "Yes, Carlton - some men _do_ wear jewelry. It wasn't a _ladies' _bracelet, after all."

He nodded again. "Yeah. But it _was_ a perfect match to the bracelet Paige-Hamilton wore."

She pondered that for a second, then shrugged. "So you think they're, what, lovers in the dark? She wouldn't be the first suburban housewife to turn to the tennis pro, you know. In fact, it's kind of a soap opera stereotype."

"But she's _not_ a suburban housewife, she's a lonely divorcee. So why isn't this relationship 'out?'"

"Maybe they're not ready to go public," Juliet said. "Or maybe there's some other reason - a wealthy relative who wouldn't consider the relationship 'proper.' There could be any number of extremely innocent reasons, Carlton."

He nodded. "Yes, I suppose so."

They drove in silence for awhile, and then Juliet looked at him. "You still think that Carrie has something to do with these murders, don't you? _Why on earth _would you ever think that?"

"Let's just see what Forth has for us," he said repressively. Juliet sighed and sat back in her seat. She loved Carlton but heaven help her, he could be the most frustratingly stubborn man on the planet.


	20. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-One: Is There a Detective in the House?<strong>

Honey-gold hair, long and smooth and pulled up neatly, pale-peach skin that once must have glowed with life and beauty but was now cold and pallid. Would it have been any easier to walk onto this scene if the victim didn't look so much like Juliet before Juliet dyed her hair for this operation? Yes, undoubtedly it would.

"How long have they been dead?" Lassiter asked, dragging his gaze from the dead woman tied into the kitchen chair to the man lying face-down on the floor in front of her.

"The ME thinks about fourteen hours, which means they would have been killed about three-thirty yesterday afternoon," Forth said. "Of course we won't know for sure until the autopsy."

"_He _was killed first, like the others?"

"Looks like."

Lassiter squatted down beside the body of the husband, a twenty-eight year old intern at a well-respected plastic surgeon's office. His throat had been cut from right to left, indicating either a right-handed attack from the front or a left-handed attack from behind. Given the arterial spray that covered the body of the wife, directly in front of the man, Lassiter was betting on a left-handed assailant. All perfectly in keeping with established MO and evidence, but it was one thing to look at case files and crime scene photos, quite another to see it spread so freshly in front of you. He ignored with sublime distain the poorly stifled laugh of Detective Forth, who was apparently taking great amusement in seeing him squatting down in white tennis shorts and ankle socks.

"Sorry, mate," Forth said anyway, "it's just…well…there's a reason I refuse to play tennis, and _that's_ the reason."

"Believe me, Forth, if I could've refused, I would have," Lassiter said. He reached automatically for the pen in his jacket pocket before he realized he wasn't wearing a suit. "Quit gawking and loan me a probe."

Forth passed him a cheap Bic pen. Lassiter grunted thanks and used it to check the depth of the neck wound. "Damn, man was nearly decapitated, wasn't he?"

Forth nodded. "We'd made note from case to case how our UnSub - or _Subs_, as the case may be - seems to be getting more…proficient with practice, so to speak. Certainly more confident."

"Not to mention violent." Although that wasn't exactly the right word and Lassiter knew it. Violence was inherent in the method of execution (and wasn't that _exactly_ the right word right there? Yes it was) but the murders weren't violent, they were quick, brutal, yes, but…but…almost _clinical_. Inflicting pain wasn't the purpose of these murders, the purpose was ending life.

"As usual, the only thing we've been able to determine was taken were the wedding and engagement rings. We got a good description of hers from her mother - we've got a uniform checking pawn shops on the off chance we'll find the diamonds, but judging from past experience we won't get that lucky."

"Souvenirs," Lassiter said simply. Forth nodded. Lassiter stood and took in the scene. "Someone was behind her at the time his throat was cut," he said after a long moment.

"Say what?" Detective Alonzo Semprini said.

Lassiter indicated the blood that made it past the wife's bound form to spray the floor behind her. "The bare spot is a lot bigger than her frame allows for. Someone was behind her, either not a whole lot bigger than the chair or more likely hunched over her, maybe with a weapon held on her."

Both San Francisco detectives double-checked the blood spatter and then looked at each other incredulously. "Well, Chief called him in 'cause he's the best of the best," Forth said.

"So then we _are_ looking for two killers," Semprini said.

Lassiter merely grunted. "That's how they get them. Tie up the wife, one of them keeps a weapon to her head, when the husband comes home and sees it the second one ambushes him. He can't fight or they'll kill his bride, he figures, and the second perp cuts his throat. Then either that killer or our secondary killer finishes off the wife. Pure speculation, of course, but that may even be why they target newlyweds - a two for one deal, with newlywed love keeping both victims in line long enough to do the job.

"Now if you gentlemen don't mind," he finished up, "I'm going to go check on my partner."

Semprini nodded. "Thanks for coming out here, Detective Lassiter - you've been a tremendous help."

"If I could have been of real help maybe these people would still be alive."

He didn't wait for agreement or demurral, merely exited the living area (a rather unfortunately ironic term, at the moment) for the kitchen, where O'Hara sat at a granite counter, staring into a Styrofoam cup of coffee while a uniformed policewoman hovered nearby.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asked. Concern made his voice unnecessarily gruff and he hoped she didn't take it the wrong way.

"I'm fine, Carlton, thanks," she said, but a sniffle and a swipe at traitorous tears told him otherwise. "I'm sorry. I let you down."

"Don't be stupid," he snapped irritably, though he winced at his own tone. "Listen, O'Hara, I - hold on, could you give us a few minutes alone, please?" he asked of the officer. She nodded and stepped out. Lassiter stepped up behind O'Hara and put his arms around her shoulders. "You didn't let anybody down, Juliet," he said in a quiet voice. "It's hard. It's _always_ hard - every cop knows that. It's going to be harder than usual for you, maybe for a long time."

"It's just…she looked so…so…"

"I know. Believe me, I was about half a breath from passing out when _I_ saw her."

He kissed the top of her head. "Come on, let's go home and get out of these stupid tennis outfits. You can take a long, hot bath and a glass of wine and I'll give you a backrub. Sound good?"

She snorted a watery laugh. "That was what I was planning on doing for _you _tonight," she said.

"You need it more than me," he said. "Let's roll."


	21. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Two: A Whole Other Set of Issues<strong>

Juliet soaked in the gently steaming water with her eyes closed. Lassiter sat on the floor by the side of the tub, one arm looped behind her head for a pillow. Occasionally he reached out with his other hand to stroke her hair or touch her face, and twice to refill her snifter of brandy. Otherwise he just sat there, perfectly quiet and still, giving her time to unwind while the water slowly cooled. When she finally climbed out he wrapped her in a soft, fluffy towel and held her tight to his bare chest for a few moments.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked at last.

She nodded. "I am. I'm fine, Carlton. I just…the chair, and her hair…"

"I know. I know."

He just held her for a few minutes, his face buried in her chestnut-dyed hair. Finally he spoke again.

"Do you think you could eat something if I cooked for you?"

She shuddered. "Jesus, no. Not yet, at any rate."

"Do you want to go to bed?"

"Yes. Please."

He picked her up, cradled her in his arms like a baby or his bride, and carried her out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where he gently laid her out on the King-sized bed and smoothed her half-damp hair out across the pillow. He held her gaze for a long moment as he leaned over her, his eyes as blue as she'd ever seen them, somehow simultaneously soft and strong. The Quilted Northern of eyes. She snorted laughter involuntarily.

"What?" he asked, brow furrowing into those lines of worry and faint irritation she knew so well.

"Nothing, I'm sorry," she gasped. "Just…came up with a rather unfortunate metaphor."

The lines disappeared and he even smiled slightly. "I love you, Juliet."

She touched his cheek, and her fingers played with the now well-grown bristle of his beard. "I love you, too, Carlton."

He leaned in to kiss her, and it was good, and when the kiss deepened into something more passionate, more urgent and needful, that was good, too. But when he pulled the towel away from her damp and naked body and climbed on top of her she nearly stopped him - _nearly_. The fact of the matter was that she needed him right now, powerfully, primally _needed_ him. She couldn't take the time now to explain about the empty package of birth control pills in her makeup bag that she hadn't been able to replace because, damn, what does a young bride eager to start a family want with birth control pills? Not to mention the fact that her prescription was filed under her _real_ name with her doctor five hundred miles away. And then of course there was the whole issue of his Catholic upbringing to consider - she didn't think he was exactly _practicing_ the faith of the papacy, but maybe it was better not to bring up pills and condoms with him tonight. Juliet wasn't _quite _ready for that family Julia wanted to start, but she was willing to take her chances this once.

She let him cover her body with kisses and caresses. His beard tickled her sensitive skin as he drove her to the edge and pushed her over not once but twice. After the second time, as he was making ready to build her up yet again, she stopped him. He looked at her with a question in his Quilted Northern eyes. She answered by pushing him off of her and onto his back. She straddled his legs and pushed her hair out of her face. She was blushing.

"I've never done this before," she confessed shyly.

"Done what?" _Oh holy night, _he thought as she answered him once again without words. It was his last coherent thought for some time.


	22. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Three: Taking Matters Into his Own Hands<strong>

Lassiter hadn't lied to Juliet when he said that it was difficult for him to see the blonde-haired female victim, bound to a chair and cold as ice. In fact the sight followed him into his fitful sleep, but it wasn't the face of Allison McCready that he saw, cold and pale and dead, but Juliet's. He couldn't take the idea that these sick sons of bitches might target her next. He had no evidence, but he knew who he was looking at. One of them had black eyes and the other had blue eyes, but when he looked into either pair all he could see was the abyss. He'd looked into the eyes of a lot of sick, murderous bastards in his life, and never once blinked. Ordinary killers were little different from ordinary people, either with impulse control issues or pushed past their limits in some way, but serial killers were a whole different animal. By this point in his career he was quite certain he recognized the dead, calculating gaze of sociopathy when he saw it. He would do anything to keep them away from Juliet.

_Anything._

As he cleaned and checked his Glock 17 for the thirty-second time that night he considered that. It frightened him, a little, that he felt so willing to throw away his own life and career, but _only_ a little. Stopping murderers was worth any sacrifice he could make, particularly if they intended to target Juliet. But it _would _be his last resort. Of course.

Of course.

He wasn't much on philosophy, that was more Charlotte's bag, or more properly her husband Raul's, but there was one old nugget he put a certain amount of credence in - Nietzsche's line about hunting monsters and how the abyss stares back. He wondered, not for the first time in his life, whether he might not have crossed the line from hunter to the thing he hunted at some point. Even if he had, it didn't bother him overmuch. Not as long as he was _right_, and there was the rub. Four and a half years of Shawn Spencer had left him a little insecure on that point.

He had to find evidence, that was all there was to it, and as long as he could find it while operating within a legal loophole then there was no reason to take things to the career-ending stage, let alone the life-in-prison point. It might be easier to do that if he could involve Juliet, but quite apart from the fact that he didn't want her anywhere near these bastards, she still didn't put any faith in his assessment of the suspects.

Which meant, of course, that the insecurities were stronger than usual.

He checked on her for the twenty-sixth time. She was still asleep, peacefully curled beneath the heavy down comforter. His mind brought up the memory of that blood spatter, the way it fanned out from the figure in the chair in a pattern too wide to account for her size. Whoever was behind that poor girl got a lot of blood on them, too much to clean up he was certain. The husband was killed by a left-handed perp. Landry Hawkes played tennis with the racket in his left hand. The wound in the neck of the wife indicated a right-handed killer, either less violent or not as strong as the other perp. Carrie Paige-Hamilton was right-handed. She also lived right next door, and her garbage can was on the near-side of her house, in a very dark corner.

Legally, discarded property was fair game.

He knew it was a long shot. And even if he did find bloody clothing in the can, he couldn't prove that she'd put it there. But somebody had a shoebox or _something_ full of stolen engagement rings somewhere in their house, and clothes covered in the husband's blood - particularly if he could get someone to testify to the fact that they were, indeed, Carrie Paige-Hamilton's clothes - would give Semprini and Forth sufficient cause for a search warrant. It was operating within a rather uncomfortable gray area, the kind of thing a clever defense lawyer could turn against the police at least to the point of creating doubt in a jury's mind, but overall he thought it was worth the risk. It was time to end this.

He dressed quietly, dark slacks, a black sweatshirt, and black gloves. He eschewed the ankle holster and simply shoved the Glock in the waistband of his pants, beneath his belt. He stuck his "Carl O'Hara" wallet in his back pocket and left his true ID in the drawer of the bedside table along with his badge. He left his regulation handcuffs but took a couple of zip-tie flexcuffs, just in case. In a fit of optimism he took a black garbage back from the kitchen and stuffed it inside his sweatshirt, on the off chance he actually did find any evidence. Flashlight in hand, he crept silently out the back door. He did not switch it on until he was at his objective.

He dug halfway to the bottom of the full can, meticulously picking through kitchen trash. Then a noise alerted him and he switched off the flashlight and stood in utter darkness, pressed into the shadows of the house.

Carrie Paige-Hamilton and Landry Hawkes crept through the back yard like thieves. Lassiter watched them right up to the back door, where they kissed as Paige-Hamilton fumbled for a set of keys to let them in. When they disappeared inside and the lights came on Lassiter moved to the window to watch. He almost reached for his police radio to call in his position before he remembered that this operation was completely unsanctioned and he wasn't wearing a walkie.

He had to know what they were saying to each other, had to know whether he was wasting his time, whether he was, as Juliet almost certainly believed, a paranoid old fool. He counted on the reflection of the glass and the drawn Venetian blinds to keep him concealed as he cupped his hands and pressed his ear to the window.

There was nothing, the frustrating kind of nothing that ought to be something but wasn't. Stupid crooning, lovestruck inanity that made him grind his teeth even though - or perhaps because - it was so similar to the kind of conversations he'd been having with Juliet now for weeks. Finally Hawkes excused himself to go to the bathroom or some such and Lassiter drew away from the window to turn his attention back to the garbage can, though he now held little hope of finding anything. Maybe he really _was_ a paranoid old fool.

He kept the beam of light contained within the confines of the can and dug with twice the care as before, aiming for silence. More nothing. His heart sank. He was _wrong_. There were killers out there somewhere, gunning for _his _beloved, and he had no clue who they were or where to find them. In an agony of frustration he kicked the garbage can before he could stop himself. It was plastic, so it didn't make a lot of noise, but his heart pounded in his ears for a moment as he listened for a reaction. When nothing happened, he calmed down and decided to go home before Juliet could wake and he'd have to explain himself and face her disapprobation or, worse, amusement.

He turned straight toward Landry Hawkes, who stood dead silent not a pace away from him in the darkness. Black eyes glittered in lunatic triumph.

"Well, looky what we got here," the tennis pro said. "Howdy, there, Carl. Find anything interesting?"

Before Lassiter could even begin to think of an innocent excuse, Landry raised the knife he held - a ten inch hunting knife with a wicked edge, exactly the kind they were looking for in connection with the murders. "Put your hands up, Carly-baby, and don't try anything stupid."

Lassiter considered going for the Glock in the waistband of his pants, but the bulky sweatshirt would make a clean draw difficult if not impossible, and damn it to hell if Hawkes didn't have the drop on him. Reluctantly he raised his hands over his head, palms out. Landry patted him down with his free hand and found the gun. He whistled low.

"Damn, Carly. Carrie said you were a history professor. Looks to me you're more like Dirty Harry." He checked the magazine and flicked the safety off with his thumb. "I think maybe you and me and Carrie need to sit down for a heart-to-heart. Come on."

He pushed Lassiter ahead of him, up the back steps and into the rear of the house. "Lannie, you were just supposed to _look," _Carrie Paige-Hamilton said as he entered. "What do you think you're doing, bringing him _here?"_

"There's been a change of plan, baby-doll," Hawkes said. "Professor Carly here was snooping through your trash, and he was kind enough to bring us the gift of this very nice gun. I think he's a fucking cop, don't you?"

She laughed. Actually _laughed_. "Him? A cop? Lannie, sweetie, don't be silly. Gun or no gun, this guy's about as threatening as a French Lop."

That struck a glancing blow, but Lassiter supposed it was better they think him unthreatening and unofficial than otherwise. "I'm an adjunct professor of history at San Francisco University. The head of my department is Professor Daniel Forthright. You can call him and ask if you want to, I can give you his number. I don't know what's going on and I won't say anything. Just please, let me go."

"So what the hell were you doing going through our garbage, then, Carly?" Hawkes sneered. Lassiter shrugged one shoulder.

"You don't sort your recyclables," he said.

"Yeah, right. You look like a real environmentalist, O'Hara. _If_ that's even your name." Landry handed the gun to Paige-Hamilton. "You keep this slick son of a bitch covered, baby-doll, while I see what we've got here."

He stepped up and did a more thorough search of Lassiter's person, coming up with the flexcuffs and black garbage bag as well as Lassiter's fake identification.

"Well, this says you're Carl O'Hara, college professor," Hawkes said, looking at the cards in the black bi-fold wallet, "but _this_ seems to say otherwise, Carly." He waggled the flexcuffs accusingly. "Either you're some kind of kinky fetishist or you were looking to make a possible arrest tonight. And a bag for evidence, eh?"

"Kinky fetishist," Lassiter said. "You can relate, right?"

Carrie whacked him on the back of the head with the butt of his gun, but she was too short to get a good angle on it so he only saw a few stars and staggered forward a couple of steps. "Shut up," she snarled. And then, to Landry, "We can't kill him _here_, everyone will find out."

"Relax, baby. It's Saturday, we kill this bastard and his pretty little lady tonight and we can be in Tijuana before anybody even knows they're missing. Cop or not, doesn't matter. His ass is ours, now."

"But then what?" she whined.

"Then we lay low for awhile, fix ourselves up with some new identities, and start over somewhere new. You wanted thrills, right? Running from the cops is a hell of a thrill, baby, trust me."

_Dear sweet justice, O'Hara, wake up and get the fuck out of there,_ Lassiter thought desperately, willing her to hear him. If there was any such thing as psychic phenomena, he prayed, let her hear.


	23. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Four: Partners<strong>

_Dear sweet justice, O'Hara, wake up and get the fuck out of there._

Her eyes snapped open. It wasn't the first time she'd heard her partner's gruff command in her own head - he was a frequent tenant of her thoughts, actually - but it was only the second time she could remember hearing it so _clearly_, as though he were speaking directly into her ear. The first time was when she was held captive by Yin - she could hear him berating her for her stupidity in getting caught by an obvious trap.

She leaped out of bed. He wasn't there, and she didn't waste time looking for him. She knew with a cold certainty _exactly_ where he was - next door, prisoner of a pair of psychopathic murderers. And she'd had the audacity to _doubt_ him. Never again, that was for certain. Or at least not in a serial killer case. He _did _tend to jump the gun a bit on ordinary murder suspects.

She dressed hurriedly and grabbed her purse. She took her gun out of it and checked the chamber. As an afterthought she emptied the drawer of the bedside table into her purse - Lassiter's proper identification, badge, and handcuffs. He'd need the identification at the very least, if - _when, _she insisted, _when_ she managed to save him, and something told her it was best not to leave the rest behind, either. She raced out of the house and hid herself in the shadows next door.

She peered through the window where the light shined through. She saw through the slat of the Venetian blinds her worst nightmare: Carlton, tied to a kitchen chair while a gun-toting _bitch_ and a knife-wielding psycho taunted him. She recognized the gun Carrie held - Lassiter's own beloved Glock. There was a rising welt on his cheek that suggested she'd struck him with the butt of it at least once. He looked calm, all things considered, and his eyes were cold and hard - the steely interrogation glare that had broken more than one criminal with little more than a word uttered. Juliet knew that if he were looking at _her_ like that, she'd probably feel compelled to shoot him, bound or not. Not a few people called him a hard-ass or a tough son of a bitch, and they were the ones who put it mildly. These two fools clearly didn't know who they were messing with.

There were flexcuffs on his wrists, she realized, probably ones he'd brought with him. They were virtually impossible to break in the behind-the-back position he was cuffed in, but she could see the way they were flexing under his surreptitious movements and she thought it wouldn't take him much longer before he managed, if not to _break _them, then to slip a hand out of them. She had no doubt that all hell would break loose once he did, but she also knew that he probably wouldn't survive it unless she could help even the odds. The scary part of _that_ was she knew he knew that, too.

He was prepared to _die_ to stop these two.

She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialed Forth's number, knowing that the detective was on night duty for surveillance. She gave him the information and heard his excited, "We're on our way, sit tight," with more than a little relief. But she wasn't about to "sit tight," not when her partner needed her.

The tennis pro/serial killer left the house, leaving Lassiter alone with Carrie. Juliet hunkered low as Landry passed, then quietly moved to the back door with her gun drawn. Landry was the bigger physical threat, but Carrie had Lassiter's weapon and Lassiter himself was still bound and helpless. Juliet wasn't going to leave him at her mercy. She whispered a silent prayer that her actions wouldn't get her partner killed. Then she made her move.

"Since they're going to know it was us this time," Paige-Hamilton was saying, "I think Lannie and I will have a little fun with the two of you before we kill you. That little bitch of yours is _hot_, Carly, seriously, and you're kind of cute, too, for the brainy type."

Juliet closed her eyes and hoped her thoughts would pass through whatever strange, tenebrous connection she and her partner shared. _I'm coming in. If you can, give me some breathing room._

She had no idea if he heard, if she was crazy for thinking that somehow he could. She didn't have time to think about it. She burst through the door, shouting, "Police! Drop the weapon!" At the exact moment she did so, Lassiter kicked hard at the floor and toppled the chair backward. Carrie tried to draw a bead on her but Juliet fired first. Her bullet entered the woman's right shoulder and she dropped Lassiter's gun with a cry of pain. Juliet had her cuffed and on the floor in only a matter of seconds. She grabbed a pair of scissors out of a junk drawer by the door and cut Lassiter's cuffs.

"Are you okay?" she asked, and her fingers touched his swelling cheek gingerly.

"I'm fine," he said tersely. "Hawkes?"

"Unless he heard the shot and made an immediate run for it, probably on his way."

He struggled free of the chair and sat up. "Let's make sure he gets a rousing welcome."

He recovered his gun and they took up opposing cover at the sides of the door. His eyes locked on Juliet's for a moment and the look in them warmed her to her very core. It was not the look of love he so often wore these days when he looked at her, but the simple look of absolute trust that was so much harder to come by with him. He nodded once, and she returned the gesture. They were on the same page.

They heard Hawkes' irritated cursing in the yard. "Dammit, Carrie, I told you to wait, you dumb bitch. Someone will have heard that shot so the cops will be here soon. We've gotta go."

Lassiter and Juliet burst through the doorway at the same time. _"Police! Freeze!"_

Hawkes barely hesitated. He turned and ran, long legs chewing up the ground. But Lassiter had long legs, too, and a score to settle. Within five steps he launched himself at the tennis pro in a flying tackle and took him to the ground. The man fought like a wildcat, all rangy strength and psychotic will, but Lassiter was heavier and was able to keep the man secured until Juliet could get the cuffs on him. Lights and sirens heralded the arrival of Detective Forth and his retinue of uniformed officers at that very moment.

Lassiter stood, dragging Hawkes to his feet with him, as Forth trotted across the dark lawn toward them. "This is your jurisdiction, Detective," he said wearily. "I'll let you do the honors of reading this bastard his rights. His accomplice is in the house, also secured with cuffs."

"Stellar work, detectives," Forth complimented. "Lonzo and Chief Reyes are on their way - I think Carlos just about shit himself when I called in what was happening. Who could have guessed our killers were right next door? Literally?"

"Carlton did," Juliet said. "He knew there was something weird about Carrie right off the bat."

Forth had several uniformed officers take the killers into custody. "Well, now we can start looking for evidence," he said, in evident glee. "Detective Lassiter, you look like you could use a little time with EMS. Detective O'Hara, would you care to help me search?"

Juliet shook her head. "I'm going to stay with Carlton," she said.

Forth nodded, unsurprised. "As you will. For the record but, as it happens, completely _off_ of it, I wish the two of you the best of luck. It isn't easy loving a cop, even if you are one."

"Tell me about it," Juliet muttered under her breath as he walked away.

"What?" Lassiter asked.

"I am _severely_ pissed off at you right now, Carlton," Juliet said. "If I weren't afraid you had a broken cheekbone I'd slap you right across your big…dumb…stupid face."

He had the grace to look abashed rather than pretend he didn't understand her anger. "I'm pretty sure it's just bruised," he admitted, "so if you really need to…"

Instead of hitting him, she grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him soundly. "Don't you _ever_ go off on your own like that again, do you hear me?" she said.

"I heard you."

Something in his tone, and his use of the past tense, made her cock a quizzical brow at him.

"I _heard_ you. In the house, before you came in. It was like you were right next to me," he said. He looked uncomfortable with the admission, like he expected her to laugh at him. "You told me to give you whatever space I could."

A look of wonder dawned across her face like a light. "I…heard you, too," she said slowly. "In the house, while I was asleep. I heard you tell me to get up and get out."

His eyes got huge. "You…realize that after so many years as partners, we just know each other so well that it's basically a matter of pure instinct, knowing what we're doing in any given situation," he said with a trace of humor. "There's…nothing _supernatural_ about it."

She smiled. "That doesn't minimize how amazing it is."

He laughed. "Maybe you're right about that."

EMS pulled up then, and Lassiter was accosted by a middle-aged female paramedic with a no-nonsense attitude and a face fierce enough to make Juliet think Lassiter had finally met his match among EMTs. "Were you struck anywhere else, Detective?" the woman asked.

"Back of the head. But not very hard."

She shone a penlight into his eyes. "No sign of concussion," she mused.

"Hard-headed."

A faint smile split her thin lips. "In my experience, cops always are. Been married to one for the last twenty-six years."

She prodded the base of his skull. "No sign of edema. Any pain or tenderness?"

"No."

"Good. Now about that face."

"Had it all my life. Figure there's nothing I can do about it now."

"Ah. A _funny_ cop." The medic smiled as she investigated the wound. "Well, I don't think it's broken, but you should probably have an x-ray just to be sure. But I know you tough-guy types. Bruises and black eyes are badges of honor, and a hospital identification bracelet is some kind of admission of weakness. So I won't fight you if you don't want to go for a ride in the bus."

"Thanks."

"I'll take that as a no, then? Fine, suit yourself." She clucked her tongue at the stupidity of men and hopped into the back of the ambulance.

"_Carlton," _Juliet said.

"I'm fine, Juliet," he insisted. "A bag of frozen peas and I'm set."

"I don't think we _have _a bag of frozen peas," Juliet said. "There's a bag of vegetable medley in the freezer."

"I don't think there's a great medicinal difference between icing a bruise with peas or a bag of baby carrots, snow peas, yellow squash, and corn nibblets. Maybe aesthetic."

"Come on, then. We probably don't have much time to relax before Semprini and the Chief get here and start hounding us for statements and what-not."

"After you, my lady."


	24. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Five: A New Kind of Partnership<strong>

"We…uh…got the clearance, but I think my actions that night preclude the idea of a good report," Lassiter said, four days later after the final reports were in and charges were filed. "Given the way I've behaved, I think it might be best for us _not_ to be partners anymore. I just hope she doesn't go with the transfer option."

Juliet socked him hard on the arm. "Don't even say that. I'm…perfectly willing to accept a change of partner if Vick insists upon it, but we are _not_ going to court a split. You're just going to have to get over feeling like you have to protect me."

He shook his head. "I really don't think I can."

"You can, and you will. As to the possibility that she'd try a transfer…well, I've been thinking about that, and I thought of something. Something that will knock the option off the table completely."

And that was how he found himself, five days after that, standing next to Daniel Forth in a municipal courtroom, waiting for Juliet and the judge. She came in first, flanked by Chief Carlos Reyes and Head Detective Alonzo Semprini on one side, and a rather grumpy-looking Federal Agent Adrianna Meeks on the other. She was wearing a peach-colored sundress, cheerful and informal and utterly breathtaking. She was blonde again. Her cheeks were flushed with natural color and her eyes, when they met Lassiter's, were bright and shining.

"Woah, steady on there, mate," Forth said as he grabbed Lassiter's arm. Lassiter hadn't even realized he'd staggered.

"Sorry. I'm a little…overwhelmed," Lassiter whispered.

"Not surprised. I would be, too, were I about to marry _that." _He jerked his pointed chin in Meeks' direction. _"She _don't look any too thrilled to be here, do she? Makes me glad I got outta bed this morning."

"Are you ready for this?" Juliet asked when she stood before him.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yeah."

The justice arrived, and the brief ceremony went off without a hitch. Lassiter put the ring on Juliet's finger and kissed her for the first time as his actual, real-life wife. Cheers and a few catcalls (from Forth) greeted their first moments as husband and wife.

"I'm going to put in a good word for both of you with your Chief," Reyes said. "Despite one rather reckless maneuver, Detective Lassiter, I have no complaints whatsoever about your ability to work as a unit. But if for some reason it doesn't work out in Santa Barbara, San Francisco would be more than happy to take you both."

"But don't think that you've got a shot at Head Detective here," Forth warned. "When the old Sicilian moves up or out, this city is going to the _British _regime."

"Well, there goes San Francisco," Lassiter said. "Seriously, Chief Reyes, thank you for the offer. We'll keep it in mind, if things go…badly, back home."

"But they won't. Of course," Juliet added emphatically.

"Right. Of course."

"Are you going straight back home or will you be sticking around a bit?" Forth asked.

"I shudder to think what mess Spencer has made of the PD in my absence," Lassiter groaned.

"Actually, so do I," Juliet said honestly. "I think we'd better get back ASAP. Besides, good report or no, Chief Vick won't be happy we went behind her back and…well, I guess it isn't technically an 'elopement,' is it? We were already out of town."

"We need to start the paperwork anyway. Change of status, benefits, all of that happy horseshhhhh…oes," Lassiter said.

"What, no honeymoon?" Meeks said.

"We'll worry about that later," Juliet said, with a stern glare at the Federal agent.

They finally broke away from the San Francisco contingent. On the way back to the car Juliet pulled Lassiter aside. "There's…something I think we need to talk about. I…should have told you earlier."

"What is it?"

"Come here, let me show you something."

She went to the trunk of his red Malibu and held out her hand for the keys. He passed them over and she popped the trunk and rummaged through her bag for her makeup case. She pulled out an empty safety pack card for pills. "I've…been off my b.c. for the last nine days."

His blank expression lasted for about two beats until comprehension suddenly dawned. "Off…birth control?"

She nodded. He gulped. "O'Hara, I'm…I'm sorry, I…should have asked you - "

"That's not my name."

"What?"

"O'Hara. That's not my name anymore." She smiled at him. He felt like he was on the verge of fainting.

"That's…right. I guess it isn't."

"And anyway, my point in showing you this…I've been thinking about it for a few days, and…I don't think I want to refill my prescription."

"You don't?"

"I don't." She locked her gaze with his and held it. He blinked first.

"Well, uh…if you'd rather I…uh…well, I could buy…those. I'm sure there are plenty of places that sell…them…where no one would know who I am."

She laughed and shook her head. "Carlton, I don't want you to buy condoms."

"You…don't."

"No, I _don't_. Now, if you're not ready or don't want a child I'll refill my prescription as soon as we get home - though I can't exactly promise that it isn't already too late. I know what _I_ want, so the final decision on this is up to you. I'm sorry for just kind of dumping it on you like this, but up 'til now I wasn't entirely certain how to broach the subject."

"O'H…_Juliet, _I - " He gave up searching for words and simply put his arms around her and kissed her. "If you're absolutely _certain_ that's what you want, then I want it, too. More than you'll ever know."


	25. epilogue

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 4 episode 16, "Mr. Yin Presents," some minor spoilers through current episodes.

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue: A Quiet Evening at Home<strong>

Wrapped together on the couch in that wonderfully awful pink-and-purple afghan, a single glass of red wine in his hand from which they both sipped, Juliet in his lap with her head resting on his chest. The grey tabby, Mipsy, sat in the meatloaf position on the black lacquered surface of the coffee table, Juliet's cocker spaniel, Beau, slept peacefully on the floor by the sofa with his head resting comfortably on Lassiter's foot, and the orange tabby Fluffernutter, the man-crazy, sat on the back of the couch behind Lassiter's head, purring loud enough to drown out the low volume of the television, set to the news. They'd spent quite a lot of time together in exactly this way, and Lassiter knew he'd never tire of it.

All things considered, most everybody had taken the news of their marriage well. Chief Vick had only been mildly upset, and mostly, Lassiter thought, because she hadn't been invited. Shawn Spencer had disappeared for a few months following the announcement, leaving Guster high and dry holding the lease for the Psych offices and Henry without work, but eventually he returned, as cheerfully intrusive and annoying as ever, and things had returned to "normal" with regard to department psychics and Henry resumed his position as department liaison.

They'd spent a lot of the last few months in San Francisco, following up with the case against Paige-Hamilton and Hawkes, spree killers out for thrills at the expense of middle-class newlyweds. The actual trial was still probably months away, but with the bloody clothes and wedding sets recovered from both residences - all kept as souvenirs of their bloody handiwork - the case looked to be a slam-dunk even if Lassiter wasn't allowed to testify to his own abduction, which the defense was angling for. Justice could never erase the crime or heal the wounds left behind, but at least those two particular homicidal maniacs would never be allowed to do what they'd done again. Lassiter felt the warm glow of a job well done in addition to the heat of the wine.

Into this pleasant silence Juliet interjected his name. He looked at her. She looked at him. She was smiling, a peaceful smile that made him feel like everything really was going to be all right, his last doubts laid to rest. She brought her hand out from under the afghan. She held a white plastic stick-contraption in her hand. He looked at it. The orange tabby oozed onto his shoulder and rolled ecstatically, depositing a considerable quantity of light-colored fur onto the dark fabric of the cobalt blue shirt he wore. He didn't know how these things worked, exactly, or how to read them, but the blue plus sign seemed to indicate a degree of positivity. Juliet snuggled against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

Lassiter held his wife in his arms as she, and the child she carried, drifted off to sleep in his lap.

**FIN**


End file.
